


Kundiman

by orphan_account



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: AU, Betaed, College AU, Glee Drabble Meme, Library AU, M/M, Multiple chapters, NC-17, San Francisco, chris colfer - Freeform, crisscolfer, darren criss - Freeform, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:25:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4876729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nineteen-year-old Darren is a little lost. He's been in America for over a decade now, but he knows there's something missing in his life. He's in transition, taking classes at the local college, making music, navigating the ins and outs of being a young adult in his huge family. He aches to be seen by someone, anyone at all. Chris, also nineteen, has always feared being seen. He keeps himself hidden in the closet, in his home, and in the library where he works part-time to save up for something bigger. A chance meeting leaves them both hoping for more -- to find what they've been missing, to take a step towards their biggest dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kundiman is a genre of traditional Filipino love songs, and the quote at the beginning is from Where The Wild Things Are. This is my first CrissColfer fic. :)

**“And the walls became the world all around.”**

Darren stumbles over his feet, unable to see the sidewalk with how many books he has piled in his arms. He prays his way down a staircase and, craning his neck around the books, gives his brother Chuck a small wave. Chuck, who’s waiting for him in the car alongside the college, is tempted to pretend he doesn’t know him -- especially when three books come tumbling down from the stack, and a boy stops to help Darren pick them up. Chuck checks his watch; they’re already going to be late for dinner. Chuck honks. A fresh book falls off the stack, and Darren jumps, picks it up and walks the rest of the way to the car.

“Jeez, give it a rest,” he tells Chuck, shucking the books in the back seat.

“We’re really late. Where were you?”

“Picking these up from Mrs. Iglesias.”

Chuck rolls his eyes and starts the car. Darren pulls his shoes off and puts his feet on the dash. Then he shakes out his bushy espresso-colored hair and yawns.

“How was school?” he asks.

Chuck shrugs. “Okay. The good news is I think I finally found someone who can play harmonica.”

“I can play harmonica--”

“I can’t put you in my band, Dare.”

“C’mon, man, it would be cute to have your kid brother in your band.”

“You’re too talented to stand in the background and play harmonica.”

“Don’t let your new harmonica player hear you say that.”

Chuck groans. “Just -- seriously. You can really fucking sing.”

Darren shrugs. He thinks about music so much. Sometimes it’s nice to pretend he doesn’t care about it with every fiber of his heart. Sometimes that’s easier.

They park along their apartment -- small, made of brick, housing twenty people. It reminds Darren of a termite mound, relatively innocuous at first glance, but actually bursting with tiny organisms. His entire family is tiny. Well, individually tiny. Collectively, it’s huge -- about twelve people. He and Chuck get out, Darren restacking all his books and Chuck pulling a guitar out of the trunk, and go inside. Their grandmother is smoking a cigarette and cooking something in a large cast iron pan. She doesn’t say hello when they come in, because she gets distracted by a scream in the corner. Daya, Darren’s three-year-old cousin, has a safety pin stuck in her finger.

“Oh -- God -- hold on.” Darren drops the books and rushes over to her. She holds her hand out, absolutely screaming, and he quickly pulls the pin out. “There. All bett -- ohhh, that’s a lot of blood. Fuck. Hey Chuck! Can you get a towel?”

“Don’t swear around the kids!” shouts his grandmother, flipping what he can now see is a whole duck in the pan.

“Sorry Lola!”

“Ay nako!”

“I said I was sorry!”

Chuck appears with a towel. Daya is still crying. The smoke alarm goes off.

“C’mere, Daya, c’mon it’s okay,” mumbles Darren, holding the towel around her tiny hand. “It was just a pin. You’re okay -- oh, I know, I know.” Her crying is only getting louder. “Cmon, okay, we’ll go get a sno-cone.”

“No! I’m cooking!” shouts Lola over the smoke alarm.

“Okay, Lola!” Darren lowers his voice. “We’ll sneak out for a sno-cone.”

“Swo-cone?” asks Daya, unsure.

Darren nods. “Swo-cone. Let’s just go get a bandaid first.”

“You’ll never get the car back at this rate,” murmurs Chuck, and Darren makes a face at him before picking up Daya and carrying her to the bathroom.

On the way he passes several other toddlers and small children, and waves to his aunt who’s putting her hair up in a bandana. The apartment is filled mostly with women and children, his mom Cerina and her sisters. Darren’s dad, Bill, was in the Philippines for a business retreat when he met Cerina; since his work was flexible, he decided to move there and start a family with her. But after eight years, his business was suffering, and they decided to move to the States. They’ve been in San Francisco for over ten years now, though Bill’s business often takes him far from home and they only seem to see him on holidays. As for Cerina’s three sisters, they followed her to the States for better jobs.

Darren opens up the medicine cabinet and pulls out a bandaid box and some antibacterial spray. He fixes up Daya’s finger and then, grabbing his wallet out of his and Chuck’s room (the highest, in the attic, sweltering) he heads out the back door with Daya on his shoulders.

She tugs his hair and laughs gleefully. “Swo-cone!”

“Shh, or we’ll get caught,” he says, going down the thin metal stairs.

She nods seriously. They continue down the stairs and turn the corner onto the street. Darren glances up (going cross-eyed) at Daya.

“Does your finger feel better?”

“Swo-cone,” she responds.

“That tenacity will get you far in life,” he says approvingly. “Never take no for an answer.”

She grins brightly and kicks her little feet. They bounce on his shoulders. A moment later they reach the sno-cone stand, run by a bright blonde girl about Darren’s age. They smile lightly at each other.

“Did you get someone pregnant?” she asks, gesturing at Daya.

“Yeah, shh, it’s a big family secret,” says Darren.

The girl laughs. “Mm, too bad it wasn’t me.”

Darren’s eyebrows jump and he laughs. “There’s still time,” he replies, but before he can ask the girl if she’s free later, Daya points forcefully at the blueberry illustration on the sign.

“Swo-cone!”

“OK, gosh, OK. So, a blueberry sno-cone and…”

“You know you want one too,” says the girl.

“Pick one for me,” he says, and reaches back to set Daya down. He doesn’t want to risk getting blue syrup all over his hair.

The girl makes two sno-cones -- blueberry for Daya, and watermelon for Darren -- but before Darren takes his, he puts his hands over Daya’s ears and smiles winningly.

“Wanna hang out later?”

The girl smiles and adjusts her apron straps. “Sure. Where?”

“I live right around the corner,” he says.

“Oh, you’re already inviting me home?”

He tilts his head down. “Um, no -- how about--”

“I’m kidding,” she interrupts. “I’ll stop by. What’s your address?”

Ten minutes later, Darren sneaks in the back door with a blue-mouthed Daya, and runs into Chuck.

“What took you so long?”

“I was talking to--”

“--sno-cone girl,” guesses Chuck. “She has really nice…”

“Eyes,” says Darren. Then he frowns. “You were going to say eyes, right?”

“Sure, eyes. Her eyes are nice. She also has great boobs but I was definitely going to say eyes.”

Darren wrinkles his nose. “Oh my God. Chuck.”

Chuck laughs and jostles Darren’s shoulder. “Have you even had sex?”

“Sort of...”

“Sort of,” repeats Chuck. “Well. Use protect--”

“Chuck.”

“Just trying to help.”

“You are not trying to help--”

“Dinner!” shouts Lola, and they scramble down the stairs.

“Seriously, for the amount of people you flirt with, you should at least have done the do by now--”

Darren flushes. “I’m saving that for someone I fall in love with.”

Chuck pulls back. “Really? That’s so sweet--”

Darren jumps ahead of Chuck on the stairs so he can’t see how red he is, and they continue through the mishmash apartment until they reach the dinner table. There’s pan-fried duck and slippery, see-through noodles with garlic. The rest of the family comes out of their rooms and gathers around. Darren’s mom, Cerina, puts an arm around him.

“Good day at school?” she asks.

Darren nods and gives her a squeeze. She’s about to say something else, but Lola interrupts.

“Young man, why is Daya’s tongue bright blue?”

“I -- maybe she found -- I --” Darren is bad at lying. “We got sno-cones.”

Lola’s eyebrows jump together and for the next six and half minutes (he counts) Darren endures a lecture in Tagalog about sugar consumption. Chuck muffles his laughter, and finally Cerina asks her mother to be quiet and sit down. The other kids Daya’s age are wild with jealousy, and Daya pulls her shirt up over her mouth to hide the evidence.

“Sorry Lola,” murmurs Darren.

“Please just eat dinner!” shouts Aunt Ainjyl.

Everyone quiets down and starts plating up. A man once broke into Ainjyl’s fruit shop, and she knocked him out cold with a pineapple. She’s commanded the fear and respect of her family members ever since.

“Do you have a lot of homework?” Cerina asks Chuck, who’s in his second year of college.

“An essay and some physics problems,” he replies.

She looks at Darren, who’s in college part time while he works. “And you--?”

But she gets cut off as a plate of green onions goes flying to the floor. Darren can’t remember the last uninterrupted conversation he had with his mom -- there’s always something more immediate that demands her attention, especially now that he’s 19 and relatively self-sufficient. Most of the time he doesn’t mind drifting to the side like this. He’s 19. He can take care of himself.  It’s okay by him if he has to occupy himself; he reads constantly, and writes a lot of music; he makes progress at school, and he feels good about applying to some colleges in New York this fall. But sometimes he feels invisible in his family, and sometimes he feels like he’ll never catch up with the American students, and sometimes loneliness hits him in a crowd, and he goes home feeling confused and needy, though he isn’t sure what it is he needs.

From the first day they moved here, San Francisco had his heart. The layers of color, sound, love were what he was made to live in. Though he could hardly be called shy, California really brought him out. He didn’t know English that well at first, but communication wasn’t limited to words; the coast spoke in terms of human contact, and he liked that. It was easier that way to express who he was and what he felt -- to girls (and boys, which he realized with a slight shock two years earlier, when he found himself kissing who he thought was only his friend on Pier 14.) It doesn’t scare him, not anymore; San Francisco allows for it, his family doesn’t mind, and it feels right. In fact, he fits in so well with the open, permissive city that it almost acts like camouflage; and suddenly the things that made him different aren’t so different, and the attention he used to get he doesn’t get anymore.  

He loves music and always has. He knows he’s talented (not as talented as Chuck, he thinks, who’s responsible for every good piece of music he’s ever heard, bringing him home album after album and giving him guitar tips.) But he is talented, and he accepts that like a blessing, and he practices as much as he can. He has a knack for picking up new pieces, instruments and languages. He thinks (only occasionally, but more and more lately) that he has a chance of making it. He’s going to apply to Tisch, and Berklee, and Juilliard and maybe he’ll get in; and maybe on the East Coast, he’ll get noticed; maybe he won’t feel as invisible as he does in his huge, vibrant family in this huge, vibrant city.

* * *

 

Chris swears quietly and shakes out his burned fingers. Who leaves a pan handle over the burner? Well, he did, but still -- what idiot does that? Apparently him. He squeezes his fingers into his palms, knuckles going white, and runs cold water over his clenched fist. Then he picks up a cloth and moves the pan over, blood thudding in his swollen fingers. Steam puffs out of the loose cover of the pan and fogs up his glasses, and he steps back and sighs, waiting for them to clear. He’s exhausted, and macaroni and cheese shouldn’t be this complicated, and his bed and books are calling so loudly he’s tempted to forget dinner and curl up with a story.

He hears Hannah and his father working on something in the living room and goes slightly stiff. Then, hurriedly, he piles macaroni in a Corelle dish, snaps the stove off, and goes into his room.

The house is a single-level, three bedroom, similar to the one they had in Clovis. It’s a little less roomy, and it smells like lemons, and Chris tries his best not to think about the myriad Stephen King novels that begin this way….the family had lived in the house barely a week when they noticed the sinister, pervasive smell of citrus…

He doesn’t like his room; well, not his room; he just doesn’t like sleeping alone. But that’s always been true, and it has nothing to do with the new house. He just notices it more now, because he was expecting something to change when they moved to San Francisco last month. Nothing but the scenery changed. He’s still scared of being alone, but since he’s now so sure that he always will be alone, he tries to take it in stride -- in fact, according to the people at school, being alone is kind of his thing.  _Oh, that’s just Chris, he always eats alone, don’t worry about him._  “Don’t worry about him” is certainly kinder than other things being whispered about him, so he’ll take it.  

He opens up  _The 100 Foot Journey_ by Richard Morais and settles onto the pillows of his bed, tucking his legs under his hips. Lately snuggling up on his bed has gotten difficult -- his legs are too long for it -- but he does his best to get comfortable, briefly thinks about a bigger bed, and then removes the bookmark. The bookmark is from a place called Dog Eared Books, his favorite; it’s inexpensive, and he likes buying books more than getting them from the library; he did pick up a shift at the library though, to help pay for his part-time college. Plus, college and the pressures that go with it -- intelligence, popularity, sexuality (especially that one) -- all terrify him, and it’s easier to be among the books.  

He adjusts his glasses, finding his place, and reads for a minute. Then he eats a fork of macaroni and glances across the room at the laptop on his desk to see how many posts have accumulated on Tumblr -- 99+. He almost gets up, but eats another bite of dinner instead, and goes back to his book. He’s nearly done with this one, but a stack of about twelve new ones wait on an unpacked box, along with several comics, his glasses case and his ipod, which is stocked with music no one but him will ever hear. He sees boys and girls, and girls and girls, and boys and boys, all sharing headphones and listening to each other’s music, and feels shaken -- who shares music? Songs are like little audio files of the soul, not meant to be shared with anyone; just like books; just like blogs. There’s a reason for privacy.

He flips the pages of his book, unfocused, and listens to the whispery sound. Then he sets the book aside, eyes his dinner like he’s unsure if he’s going to eat any more, and listens to his parents help Hannah into a coat; they’re taking her to a friend’s house for her first sleepover, and his mom is worried if their list of emergency numbers is comprehensive enough.

“...shouldn’t we have the poison center on here?”

Chris gets up from bed and pulls out his homework for American Literature, and puts in his headphones. He has to write a response to  _O Pioneers!_ and other than “I’m glad I’m not puking out my entrails, churning butter or living in fear of grass fires” he’s not sure exactly what to write. But he finds something to say and is done fairly quickly. Then he moves onto calculus (a decidedly less simple subject) and grinds his teeth against derivatives for a half hour, and finally opens up his lab journal for advanced chemistry, which he’s sure he’s going to fail. He hears the grumble of the car pulling in the drive, and ventures back into the living room. He doesn’t avoid his sister, not exactly, but sometimes he needs peace and quiet. His mom stumbles in the door with some groceries, and smiles lightly at him.

“I got that raspberry cheesecake ice cream you like,” she says.

He smiles back. “Thanks, Mom.”

“How’s school going?” she asks earnestly.

_Hey homo! Your face look’s like a cat’s ass!_

Chris shrugs. “Fine.”

“Fine like last time?” she asks.

“No, Mom, it’s -- it’s better than high school and Clovis.” That much is true. “It’s okay. The classes are better.”

“Any friends?” she asks, moving into the kitchen to unpack celery, brown eggs, shredded cheese and red apples.

Chris follows her in listlessly, arms lightly folded. “No, not really.”

“Any girls --”

“No,” Chris says, too fast.

He would rather endure anything than a conversation about dating with his family. They didn’t know, they couldn’t know, and they didn’t understand.

“Okay,” his mom says in the too-high voice characteristic of embarrassment.

“I’m going to go read now,” Chris says stiffly.

“Uh huh, you do that honey,” agrees his mom.

“I will,” he replies.

He walks back to his room and slumps in his bed. Tomorrow is Wednesday. Only Wednesday. He sighs, rubbing his slim fingers over his eyes, and then grabs his book and keeps reading.

* * *

 

Up close, sno-cone-girl has pale brown freckles on her cheeks, and her lip is slightly split from the sun which Darren (oddly) really likes. She smells like coconut, and she mentioned she’s interested in Rococo art and loves ceramics, and she has a pretty moon tattoo on her waist and overall she’s more interesting than he expected and though he did just tell Chuck he was waiting until he met someone he really felt something for, he’s attracted to her and she doesn’t seem like she wants to leave any time soon.

“You,” she says as they come up for air, “taste really good.”

“Yeah, it’s the vanilla toothpaste, you have to find it in the kid’s section--”

“You’re really weird,” she laughs, pulling him back down by his hair.

He grins against her lips and lightly tugs the bottom one in his teeth. She plays with the waistband of his boxers and he slips a hand under her shirt. Then she flips him over, straddling his hips, and taps his other hand to let him know it’s okay. Like a lot of girls her age in San Francisco, she goes without a bra, so it’s easy for him to move his hands up over her ribs and further, and she lets her head fall back when he squeezes her breasts gently. Her skin is extremely soft and warm and he breathes in at the feeling. Then she dips back down, hair falling around their faces, and kisses him again.

“Do you have something?” she murmurs

“Um, yeah...” he murmurs back. “In the drawer.” Then he moves his hands over her delicate shoulders. “But hold on a minute, you feel good like this…”

She smiles. “Yeah.” She drags one of her hands over his cock. “You do too.”

Darren’s eyebrows jump, but before she can do more than unlatch a button, Chuck bursts in through the door.

Chloe squeals and pulls her shirt down. Darren winces. Chuck groans, exasperated.

“Darren, c’mon man! I have homework to do!”

“Do it in the living room!”

“You  _do it_  in the living room!”

“I can’t! Obviously!”

“Well I can’t focus in there! Lola’s using the sewing machine and it’s deafening!”

Chloe glances between Darren and his intruding brother with a confused look on her face.

“Why didn’t you lock the door?” she asks.

“None of these doors lock, sorry --”

“Darren, seriously, I need to do homework--”

“Give us a minute--”

“I’m leaving, don’t worry,” says Chloe, pulling on her Keds and bouncing to her feet. “Don’t worry about it.”

The door clicks softly. Chuck lets out a low, suggestive whistle. Darren sits up and looks at him.

“This happens every time!”

“It’s your own fault,” says Chuck, sitting at his desk and pulling out a heavy physics textbook. “You never put a sock on the door.”

“Like you would respect that! You’d bust right in!”

“No I wouldn’t,” Chuck says. Then he gestures at Darren. “Are you just gonna sulk?”

“Figured I would sulk for a while,” Darren says viciously.

Chuck cracks up, and then Darren does too.

“As your older brother,” says Chuck, “I’m annoyed. As your friend, she’s really pretty, and you should totally see her again.”

Darren wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, I don’t think she wants to see me again.”

“Yeah, she sounded kinda freaked out, didn’t she?”

“Absolutely freaked out,” agrees Darren glumly.

Then he hops up, snatches Chuck’s calculator off his desk, and sprints into the labyrinthine apartment with it.

“You ruin my fun, I’ll ruin yours!” he bellows.

“I’m not having fun, Darren! I’m doing physics! You were having sex! There’s a difference!”

“WHO WAS HAVING SEX?” erupts Lola from the kitchen. “NO SEX IN THIS HOUSE!”

* * *

 

Someone is kicking the back of Chris’s chair, and if he wasn’t afraid of going to jail, he would turn around and jam his pencil into the person’s windpipe.  _Bounce bounce._  The chair creaks.  _Tap tap._  Chris takes a breath and stays his hand; he tries to focus on the criminally boring lecture currently playing out on the board in the form of a flow chart. The Krebs Cycle. Or something. Maybe this was glycolysis. What was ATP again? Was that arrow going to the left? He adjusts his glasses.  _Bounce bounce._ Maybe he should just follow in the footsteps of the shaggy-haired stoners. This lecture would be more fun if he was tripping about technicolor zebras or whatever it was that stoners tripped about. Or maybe he could saturate himself in grain alcohol and sass back at the teacher  _Catalyze my ass Mr. Rogerson!_  before passing out in a heap.

No. He couldn’t do that.

He scribbles some notes. He’s never been good at focusing. He always feels like someone is looking over his shoulder, waiting to grab him. The feeling is so strong, and so constant, that he can barely maintain a C-average. It would be alright if he was an outcast because he was a nerd; but he’s just an outcast. A dumb, unlikeable, effeminate virgin who reads too much and looks up to Harry Potter. He wonders if someone really got to know him...maybe then they’d see his sense of humor; his loyalty. Maybe they would like his quirks. He likes them. He just doesn’t like what other people think of them. But maybe if someone really got to know him, they would hate him, and what would he do then?

He’d rather be alone.

The class gets out early, and Chris gets to the door as fast as he can, screwing the cap of his water bottle on tightly to distract himself from the pounding feet and laughter. Then someone taps him on the shoulder. It’s a quiet boy from Nairobi who sits in the back.

“Chris? Do you understand chemistry well at all?”

He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. His hand automatically jumps to play with his glasses.

“I was just...I was thinking we could study together?” the boy goes on.

His throat is completely dry. He can’t hear a thing, like the world is folding in. Then he turns and rushes down the hall without saying anything to him. He walks across town to the library, hating himself, and gets his nametag from the locker room. Then grabs the first of many carts, full of books waiting to be put back in place, and disappears among the shelves.

* * *

 

Darren has a problem: he always feels like he’s missing out on life. No matter how busy he is; no matter how many teachers tell him he’s talented; no matter how many new things he does, no matter how crazy they are, he doesn’t feel like he’s doing enough.

He thinks about this a lot when he’s waiting to fall asleep.

_Why do I feel lonely? My life is packed. How could I possibly feel lonely?_

And every time, he comes up with the same answer. Ten thousand love songs can’t be wrong. The fairy tales he read as a kid couldn’t have been lying. There’s a profound emptiness until one day, you find the one, and they find you. Darren wishes he could fight that emptiness. He wishes he could be fulfilled without it, but he’s like a balloon -- he’s just not the same unless he’s filled to the brim.

He pays attention to his music and his family. He runs across the river on stepping stones of hookups, but no matter what, he feels like the current is pulling him down. He likes getting off with strangers -- really, he does. He doesn’t mind the surprises or the lack of intimacy, and since he usually winds up with a boy or girl who’s just as ecstatic and heady as he is, the hookups are usually good. But they’re not meaningful. He never wants to stick around afterward. And what he said to Chuck is true -- he wants to wait for the right person before he gets really physically involved; he doesn’t want a fuckbuddy; he doesn’t want a recurrent, sexually confusing and emotionally ambiguous relationship like the ones described so well in Taylor’s latest album.

 _I just want a boyfriend._ He hugs his pillow, Chuck’s snoring filling up his ears.  _Or a girlfriend. Or someone who isn’t a girl or a boy. I just...want someone to care about...someone to care about as much as I care about Chuck -- well no, gross. But yes. Someone to really, really love; somebody I want to stay with through everything._

 _A soulmate?_  asks a disparaging voice in the back of his mind.

 _Yeah, fuck, what’s embarrassing about that?_ he thinks defiantly. It _’s what everybody wants. Somebody who gets it. Gets you. Feels everything you feel without even trying because you’re somehow connected. Maybe Plato was right...his whole...symposium thing…_

He’s falling asleep. The disparaging voice tries again.  _You really believe that shit? Maybe if you weren’t a privileged 19-year-old in America and you lived, oh I don’t know, in some Communist country, maybe then you’d realize that all the soulmate mumbo jumbo is selfish and unimportant and--_

_Fuck that noise. Love is still important in Communist countries. Love is ESPECIALLY important in Communist countries._

_You’d be fucking out of luck in a communist country, Darren..._

He snorts a little and lifts his head off his pillow. It’s morning. His alarm is ringing.

* * *

 

Chris almost loses his balance and spills his chai, but he ignores the bigger boy that shoved him and continues listlessly to his car across the football field. At least he has headphones in. At least he didn’t hear the word the boy called him.

He didn’t sleep much last night, kept awake by swirling, muddled thoughts of Hannah, his family, the future. He doesn’t really want to go to his shift at the library, and he could get out of it if he wanted to, but he drives there anyway. Nothing is really waiting for him at home, except chores and empty air. He parks under a tree, closes his windows, and glances at his phone. Nothing, as usual. He yawns so wide his jaw cracks, and then checks his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes are slightly watery from the yawn, and his freckles are bursting through his light skin like crystals of sand. He rubs at them, annoyed, and leaves a pink mark. Then he huffs, smooths his collar, and walks inside.

The pavement is warm through his shoes, and the sun beats on his almost broad shoulders. He’s tired of the heat; he hates heat in big cities. It makes everything seem smaller, damper, wilder.

The library is slow. He stocks the shelves just as slowly. He arrives home a few hours later, slightly sick from the weather, and has almost made it to the fridge for a diet coke when his mom’s voice surprises him.

“Chris, come here for a minute?”

He goes into the small living room where his mom and Hannah are watching Gilmore Girls. It’s on mute. Hannah is eating a slice of watermelon and curling her toes into the carpet.

“We got you something…” says Karyn, his mom.

There’s a drugstore bag sitting next to her. Chris immediately gets visions of nail polish and a request to help with a mother-daughter pedicure, and if that’s the case, he’s about to come down with a serious illness.

“So you don’t look like such a nerd,” adds Hannah, watching the silent TV.

“Is it a new face?” murmurs Chris.

“No, stupid. God, you’re so stupid.”

“Hannah,” scolds Karyn. She sighs and pulls out a slim cardboard box. “They’re contact lenses. So you fit in better.”

Apparently his mom didn’t think it was necessary to sugarcoat her words.

“I don’t want to wear contact lenses,” Chris says cautiously.

“C’mon, honey, you have such pretty eyes,” coaxes his mom. “You should show them off.”

“Maybe if you didn’t look so much like Professor Trelawney you’d get a date,” adds Hannah.

Chris doesn’t mind getting insulted by Hannah. Besides, she’s usually right. He picks up the box of contact lenses and scrutinizes them. Then he toggles his glasses on the bridge of his nose, considering.

“I’ll try them,” he says.

“I told mom we should have gotten the scary vampire ones,” says Hannah. “Seeing as you have a thing for Twilight.”

Chris splutters. “I do not have a thing for--”

“You have a thing for every piece of science fiction ever. It’s a fact.”

Chris glares at her. “Well -- well you like --“ But Chris can’t think of an embarrassing crush of his sister’s. She crushes on normal guys like John Stamos. “You still play with silly putty!” he finally fires back.

“You were reciting Maria’s lines from the Sound of Music in the shower yesterday. As far as which one of us is more embarrassing and pathetic, it’s you.”

Chris sticks his tongue out.

“Put that back or it’ll stay that way,” quips Hannah. “And wear the contacts.”

* * *

 

Everyone is lethargic in the August heat, including Darren, who’s crossing town on his indigo blue bicycle and cursing himself for getting his car privileges taken away. He didn’t  _mean_  to run over that curb and bang up the bottom of the car. He didn’t  _mean_  to knock over Mrs. Hasanti’s flower pots. He didn’t  _mean_  to pop one of the tires off while he was doing donuts on the wharf. He sighs, scraping his damp hair out of his eyes, and turns sharply up his street. He leaves his bike in the front yard and dashes inside to find his dad in the living room, an arm slung around Chuck, both of them laughing with frosty beers in their hands.

“Dad!” he shouts, dogpiling on them. “What the hell? We didn’t think you’d be back till next week!”

Bill shrugs. “I got tired. Missed my boys.”

Darren grins, and Chuck raises his eyebrows.

“We,” he says excitedly, “have an idea.”

Darren looks at him. “What’s your idea?”

Chuck disentangles himself from his dad and Darren, and Lola appears in the shadows of the door to upstairs.

“You’re almost 20,” Chuck goes on, “and instead of giving you a gold watch…” He looks at Lola.

“We’re cutting your hair!” she finishes humorlessly, and snaps a pair of scissors.

Darren backs up, honey-green eyes going quite wide, and tries to protect his head. “Uh uh. No way.”

“C’mon son...” says Bill, barely holding back laughter.

Cerina pops in from the kitchen, giggling. Daya shows up, too, dragging an elephant toy.

“You’ll look older and more successful,” points out Cerina.

“Girls and boys will flock to you,” says Chuck, and flaps his arms encouragingly.

“No -- it’s -- I love my hair!”

Cerina smiles warmly, and holds up a letter. “Darren.”

His eyes jump to the envelope. “Mom…?”

“It’s your Tisch letter,” she says, “and we’re making a deal. If they offered you an interview -- chop chop.”

Darren reaches for the letter, but she pulls it back.

“Shake on it!” she laughs.

He grins and shakes her hand. Then his bones turn to jelly and he hugs her abruptly.

“I didn’t even expect them to write back…” he mumbles.

“Of course they wrote back,” she says, pushing him off gently. “Open it up.”

He takes the letter and looks around at his family, biting his lip. Then he rips the side of the envelope as fast as he can and pulls out the letter. The Criss family holds a collective breath, except for Daya who squeaks about something important to three-year-olds.

Darren’s eyes move over the words a few times to make sure. Then he says, “Uh, yeah, yeah I got one.”

Lola screams and throws her arms around him, her scissors brushing the back of his neck, and Chuck punches him hard in the arm, and Cerina looks tearfully at Bill, beaming. Then before he can blink, his tiny grandmother pushes him into a chair and grabs a handful of his chin-length curls.

* * *

 

The due date of the first research paper of the semester is fast approaching, and Darren hasn’t thought of a good topic. The prompt is:  _Discuss a dietary habit and its effects on society_. His friend Lauren is researching cannibalism, and with that taken, what else is left? Something mundane like the relationship between cruciferous vegetables and childhood misery.

Darren groans.

“What’s wrong with you?” hisses Lauren.

“There’s nothing in the library about diet and society except one book about soybean cultivation,” says Darren.

They’re sitting in the stacks, trading a water bottle back and forth to beat the heat. Lauren is fanning herself with a flyer titled  _Identifying Herpes: When A Pimple is More Than a Pimple._

“Write about tofu,” she suggests.

“Tofu is a crime,” says Darren.

“Write about your family’s nutty cooking,” she goes on.

“Nah, I know too much about that.”

“So it’ll be easy.”

“So it’ll be boring.”

“Why do you make things hard for yourself?” she asks, putting down the flyer.

“I just want a good topic. This place doesn’t have a single thing.”

“Then go to the real library, Dare,” she says. “Not the school library. All the books in here are from the 80’s and they smell like pee.”

“Maybe that’s just you,” he says.

She kicks him. Then she throws her public library card at him.

“Go find an interesting topic.”

He grins and kisses her cheek. “What would I do without you?”

“You’d be so lost.”

* * *

 

Chris blinks at the unfamiliar rub of the contact lenses. He wants his glasses back, but Hannah hid them, and now he’s stuck clearing his eyes and swearing every few minutes. He screws his eyes up tight, and after a moment his vision resolves on the books he’s currently stacking -- kids’ books, like  _Cinderella, Goodnight Moon,_  and  _Stella Luna_. The kids’ section is in a hidden corner, because they’re redoing the kids’ room and had to find an alternative place for all the books. Chris has already redirected five confused children this morning alone, and he’s about ready to complain to his boss. Sighing, he puts  _Stella Luna i_ nto place among the other “S” books and has just moved onto “T” when a shadow startles him.

He glances up, and notices a boy about his age looking earnestly at the “Y” books. Chris fumbles over the bumpy stack of books in his arms, soaking up the warm skin and curious, full-lipped smile of the newcomer. He’s short and skinny, wearing comfy worn-out jeans and a light blue tee-shirt; a guitar rests on his back suspended by a pink, yellow and blue strap, and he has a bulky leather watch on his wrist. The most striking thing about him is his open, fascinated expression.

Chris’s heart stutters and stops when the boy looks over, as suddenly as if Chris called his name.

“Do you work here?”

Chris gives a tiny nod and digs his nails into the backing on  _Timmy Troll’s Big Adventure_. The boy has a faded accent, like he’s been away from home for a long time.

“I think I’m in the wrong section,” says Darren.

“You probably are,” replies Chris. “We’re reorganizing.”

Darren walks closer, and the light from the skyward windows resolves on Chris. Darren’s eyebrows give a funny little jump and he smiles a little wider. He just stands there for a moment, watching, and then he swings his hand forward.

“I’m Darren,” he announces.

“Okay,” says Chris, disentangling himself from the books and shaking Darren’s hand. “Do you -- what section are you looking for?”

“I’m not sure...I have to write a paper for my nutrition class,” responds Darren, adding, “What’s your name?”

“Oh, um, Chris,” Chris says softly, wondering why he asked.

Darren makes a motion like he wants to play with his bangs -- but he doesn’t have bangs, and his hand falls awkwardly to his side.

“Hair cut,” he says apologetically. “I’m not used to it yet. My mom made me get one.”

Chris smiles slowly. “My mom just made me get contacts. Against my will.”

“Moms,” says Darren mutinously.

They look at each other and Darren gets the feeling of something hitting him square in the back -- like a laser, or a spell, or an arrow. Chris fills in, more detailed, the longer Darren looks at him -- his skin is like a white firework, and his eyes are like those shells Lauren likes to pick up, the ones Darren can never remember the name of.

“What are those?” asks Darren, gesturing at the books in Chris’s arms.

“Oh, just more kids’ books--”

“What’s that one about?”

Darren is nearly as persistent as the peanut-butter-covered ten-year-olds Chris is used to.

“Um. A bat,” he says, holding up Stella Luna.

“Aw, cool! I didn’t grow up here, so kids’ books kinda fascinate me.”

“Here as in America?”

“Yeah,” Darren says. “I grew up in the Philippines.”

“Oh, wow,” says Chris.

“I’m not sure if it’s worthy of a wow, but thanks.”

“Well, I grew up in Fresno, so anything’s better than that.”

“Gross,” Darren agrees fervently.

Chris smiles, body buzzing faintly.

“So it’s about a bat?” Darren goes on.

“Yes…”

“What kind of bat?”

“Um…” Chris flips through the pages. “I’m not sure…”

Darren gets closer, so Chris can feel his warmth; he smells good, like leather, sandalwood and smoke.

“Definitely a fruit bat,” he says in a soft voice.

“Are you a fruit bat expert?”

“I have gotten very intimate with fruit bats,” replies Darren, remembering screaming as a six-year-old when one got tangled in his hair. Bless island life.

“Mm,” remarks Chris. “Are they nice?”

“No, they’re smelly little fucks and they have claws.”

Chris snorts. Darren grins.

“Can I check that out?” asks Darren.

“This book?”

“Yeah, my cousin would love it. She’s three.”

Chris beams. “Oh, I love kids.”

“Me too,” agrees Darren. “I never really grew up, so.”

“That’s how I feel too,” says Chris. A pause. “So can I check you out?”

“Well, I certainly won’t stop you,” replies Darren, winking.

Chris turns the color of mashed strawberries. “I didn’t mean that.”

“You meant the boring kind,” says Darren.

Chris rolls his eyes, recovering, and says, “I thought you were looking for nutrition books.”

“Oh, fuck, yeah, I am -- um --  if you had to write a paper on food, what would you write?”

“Something about cheese,” says Chris.

Darren grins and laughs.

“Are you in college?” asks Chris.

“Yeah, just part time. What about you?”

“Same. It’s my first year, which my sister tells me is important.”

“That’s just a bunch of noise,” says Darren. “No one cares about what you did your freshman year.”

“Even if you’re trying to get into NYU?”

“Oh, cool, you’re applying to NYU? What program?”

Chris blushes, not really wanting to tell a hot straight guy that he’s going into drama. “Um. The Drama Program.”

“Oh, fuck, that’s so cool! I applied to their Music Performance program, but I definitely thought about Drama. I’m kind of torn between acting and singing.”

Chris breathes out and gestures nervously at the guitar. “You play?”

“Yeah, my brother’s a lot better than me, but yeah. I think I like piano better though.”

“Oh, that’s--” Chris cuts off.

“That’s what?”

“Impressive, I guess,” says Chris.

Darren frowns slightly so Chris rushes on.

“Not impressive like presumptuous. Just impressive. I respect anyone who can play an instrument.”

“Oh.” Darren grins again. “You should meet my brother. He plays everything. It’s ridiculous.”

Chris gives a tiny smile. Then he pulls out  _Where the Wild Things Are_ , and hands it to Darren.

“Maybe your cousin would like this, too,” he says softly.

Darren smiles hugely at him. “Thanks so much! Yeah!” Then, a little color in his cheeks, he says, “Check me out? I’m giving up on nutrition.”

"Are you sure?" asks Chris.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll just piggyback on my friend's topic."

Chris nods and smiles over his shoulder, sets the remaining books down, and leads Darren over to one of the counters. He wonders distantly how he looks from the back -- reminds himself that Darren doesn't spend his day ogling boys -- and takes a stiff breath.  _Be professional, Chris. Professional. This is your job._ They get to the counter. Darren beams and presents Chris with a shiny library card. Chris looks at it.

"Did you find everything alright Ms. Lopez?" he asks.

Darren splits the library with a laugh. Chris grins playfully. Then, recovering, Darren puts on a slightly higher voice and says, "Why, yes. Yes I did."

Chris smiles and gives him back the card. "Make sure you return these on time or your friend will kill you. They're on her card."

"I'll return them on time," promises Darren.

Chris grasps for something more to say -- he doesn't want Darren to leave yet.

"How long have you worked here?" asks Darren, breaking the pause.

Darren leans on the glass counter, hand folded under his chin, eyes bouncing in interest. Chris should lean back -- if he doesn't lean back they're too close, and Darren's nose is so attractive.  _Jesus, Colfer, get it together. You can't go loopy for every hippie-model that walks in here._

"Um. I don't know."

Stupid.

"You don't know?"

"I -- um -- a week ago."

"Oh, cool, new job!"

"First job, actually. I just wanted something else in my life, you know, school's kinda..."

Darren leans closer. His eyes are like candy factory vats: chocolate, caramel, sugar crystals. Chris swallows.

"Why is school kinda...?" asks Darren worriedly.

"I'm gay," blurts Chris, and turns blotchy red again.  _Fuck_. "I mean, I'm --" Backtracking is pointless. " -- yeah."

"I completely understand," says Darren softly. "My school's pretty good about that kind of thing, but other schools aren't always great -- and I imagine Fresno was pretty bad."

"Yeah, um..." Chris is suddenly quiet, watching the reflection in the glass. "It was." Then he looks up, knowing he's ruined his chances of ever talking to Darren normally again, and goes on, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have--"

"I don't mind," laughs Darren. "It's not like I'm going to judge you." He hitches up his multi-colored guitar strap. "But hey, you've only been in San Francisco a little bit, so you'll find the right people soon. It always takes a while. I thought the Philippines were pretty accepting until I got here and then I just--" He makes an explosion sign with his hands. "Everything really opened up."

Chris's voice is very dry and small. "So -- um -- are you--?" He stops himself, because this must be a fever dream, because a boy like this is not gay and could not, did not, just stroll into the library and happen to meet him.

"Am I gay?" asks Darren willingly. He grins. "No, not exactly--"

One of Chris's coworkers steps up. "About done here?" she asks boredly. "There's a line."

Darren pulls back and gathers up his books. "Oh, yeah, sorry."

Chris eyes his coworker, steely, and smacks the library card down for Darren. "Here you go."

Darren smiles, puts the books in his bags, and leaves with a small wave.

* * *

 

Chris doesn’t realize until he’s driving home that he’s never told anyone he’s gay. He’s never said those words out loud. He thinks Hannah knows, and his parents probably suspect. But he’s never come out, certainly not to his family, not to the friends he doesn’t have, and maybe not even to himself.

It started out as midnight thoughts. Everybody has strange thoughts late at night, so he disregarded it. But then the thoughts started leaking in during the day, and he felt like a submarine with faulty seams -- water poured in at every opportunity, and finally he had to accept it. In a way, it made the teasing he endured in Clovis easier to take; at least he wasn’t being bullied for something that wasn’t true. All the taunts about his face, his voice and how he dressed, all the slurs, at least they were accurate; deadly mean, but accurate. But then it got harder, because he realized that he didn’t just face bullies -- it was likely that the people he loved, the people who were supposed to love him, wouldn’t understand. So he didn’t speak up. He kept it to himself. And with Chris, secrets aren’t likely to pop out accidentally.

So why did the truth spill out in front of Darren? He doesn’t know him, and though they were friendly, they’re hardly friends. It would have made some sense if Darren confessed first -- and Chris felt compelled to say something like, “Oh, me too.” But the confession came out of nowhere. An unseen hand shook him so the words came falling out and now it’s all he can do to grip the steering wheel and keep his eyes on the road, which is filling with blue mist and people darting to parties. He wants to accept what he did, but he can’t seem to take a free breath, and he clings to every detail. Maybe if he thinks hard enough, it’ll make sense; maybe if he studies it, the same way he studies his books, things will become clear.

He brakes, the car sliding to a gentle stop in SoMa, and taps a long finger on the wheel. None of it makes sense, no matter how hard he thinks, and what about everything Darren said? Or didn’t say. “Not exactly.” What on earth does “not exactly” gay mean? Chris huffs, but his own words come back to him, and he starts to shake again. He told a complete stranger he’s gay without a moment of thought or hesitation.  _Stranger_. That’s it. Darren, though he’s a stranger, doesn’t feel like a stranger. He feels like someone coming back right in time -- in time for what? And that suggests he somehow knew Darren before, which he didn’t. Or it suggests they were meant to meet, which he doesn’t believe in. And sure, Darren is hot and intelligent and “not exactly” gay, and the thought of brushing noses and meeting eyes hits Chris like a shot, but it’s nothing. It’s just a reflex, he tells himself sternly. He’s a stranger, and you’re too tired, and you’ll probably never see him again.

Except, somehow, Chris is sure he will.

* * *

 

“You’re in a good mood,” observes Chuck.

Darren is lying in bed, throwing a peach repeatedly up in the air above his head, and catching it. He looks over at Chuck just as his hands close around the fruit.

“I am?” he asks.

“Yep,” says Chuck, glancing up from his phone. “You’ve been smiling like an idiot for an hour.”

“Oh,” says Darren, stopping himself before he throws the peach again. He sits up a little. “Really?”

“Yeah, what’s the good news?” asks Chuck.

“I don’t have any,” says Darren, confused.

“Darren…”

Darren’s mind settles briefly on a set of turquoise eyes. They’re familiar, but he can’t place who they belong to. Then he frowns a little more, takes a bite of the peach, and chews violently.

“Is this about sno-cone girl?” asks Chuck.

“No, not at all,” Darren says through a mouthful. “There is no  _this_.”

“Then why do you keep smiling?”

“Because I put a scorpion in your bed and you haven’t found it yet.”

“Nah,” says Chuck, going back to his phone. “I know you, and there’s definitely a this.”

* * *

 


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light R for m/f sex. If that’s not your cup of tea, I’m sorry! This is a CrissColfer fic…but we’re not quite there yet.

_“I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.”  
_

Chris plays mindlessly with the splitting seams of the chair in the Dean’s office. He’s not in trouble, not exactly. He was just called in to talk about his grades, which is something that’s happened before. The school day is over, and fog is moving over the football field like a huge gossamer blanket. The only cars in the parking lot are old Cadillacs, a sign of the math department staying late, and Chris can see a sliver of the bay from where he’s sitting; the water is sapphire blue, and he wants to walk to the wharf for coffee. But with his parents coming in to talk about grades (embarrassing for a college student,) it’s lucky if he’ll have time to go to his shift at the library, let alone get coffee, so he watches summer slip away from inside the Dean’s office and drifts into thought. He jumps hard when his mom taps his shoulder twenty minutes later.

“Chris, c’mon now, you have to seem awake for this,” she says tiredly.

He gathers up his book bag, smattered with pins (a lightning bolt, a light saber, a big-eyed golden retriever), and blinks at the uncomfortable rub of his contacts. Then he pulls his bag over his shoulder and follows his mom into the office. Karyn Colfer has a permanent look of strength about to break – the thing is, she’s never broken, not once, though it always seems so immanent. Chris doesn’t know how she keeps up, and today is no different. Her face is gently lined and weary, and she looks like she could use a nap and glass of wine; instead she’s here with her son, who feels like he failed her, and somehow, she’s still smiling.

“What do you think the Dean will say?” she asks brightly.

Chris swallows a ball of guilt and shakes his head slightly. His parents’ attention needs to go wholesale to Hannah, and whenever he unnecessarily takes up their time, he can barely live with himself. He wishes he could devote more of his energy to school; he wishes he had a mind for math and science; he wishes he didn’t spend most of his time daydreaming about leaving this dull community college, moving to the East Coast, and writing.

“Where’s Dad right now?” he asks as they follow the hallway down.

“He stayed with Hannah,” replies Karyn. “We can handle this by ourselves.”

“Mom, I’m – I’m really sorry.”

“Chris, it’s not your fault,” she says, the canned response she always comes back with. “You know we would have pulled you out of high school if we could have afforded it, if we weren’t so busy with Hannah, and you would have done much better if you didn’t have to go to a school like Clovis High.”

“I don’t know about that…”

“You’re not stupid, Chris. I don’t want you to think that. And this is college, this is different.”

He wasn’t exactly suggesting that he was stupid, and it stings a little that his mom thought he was; but he shakes it off and they go through the frosted doors of Dean Li’s office. Ann Li is a bright-eyed Chinese woman who has smiled at Chris in the halls before; she apparently rules with an iron fist, but that’s according to the pothead crowd. She looks up from her computer, adjusts her cherry-red sweater, and glances at Chris and his mom.

“Ah, Chris, right – sorry to push this meeting all the way to the end of the day. I know you have a difficult family situation.”

Color rises in Chris’s cheeks. He’s not entirely sure how she knows that, and his mom looks at him curiously.

“So, we’ve called you here today,” she goes on, “because your grades at your high school were not exactly desirable, and our school holds itself to higher academic standards than you might be used to; we want to make sure you can keep up.”

“Chris is smart,” Karyn says immediately. “You should see how much he reads. He just doesn’t fit in very well here.”

_Or anywhere_ , Chris adds in his mind.

“Well, to be honest, I thought it might be something like that,” says Dean Li. “I think it would really help you to integrate a little with the student body.” Her gaze turns to Chris. “What are your interests?”

“Um–” His throat is too dry, and he croaks. He takes a quick sip from his water bottle, face hot, and goes on. “Well, reading, mostly.”

“So you could think about joining our Literary Club, or what about Poetry?”

“I - um - okay.” A breath. “Do I have to join a club?”

“Unfortunately, Chris, the board is uncomfortable letting you stay in the normal student body unless you join a few clubs.”

“The normal student body?” he asks softly.

“You would be placed in our Remedial Program otherwise,” says Dean Li.

Chris hears his mom draw a quick, unsteady breath beside him. Ann Li is watching them with sharp, perceptive eyes, and he feels even more naked than he usually does in the presence of adults.

“How-how many clubs do I have to join?”

“Three,” the Dean replies. She picks up a brochure from her desk and hands it over. “These are all the clubs we offer. One I thought might be good for you is GSA.”

“GSA?” asks Chris. “What’s that?”

“Gay-Straight Alliance,” replies Dean Li. “We’ve got a really wonderful program here, and you get to do a big mural in spring and–”

“No,” Chris says. “No, I’ll – I’ll join the Literary Club, and Drama, and…” He pans over the list, ignoring his mom’s eyes on him. He points to a name. “What’s this club?”

Ann looks at it. “Oh. That’s our rescue pet program. You get to raise cats and dogs and help place them with families.”

Chris nods. “Okay. That one, then.”

“Are you interested in getting a four-year degree in the future, Chris?” Ann asks unexpectedly.

He shrugs, biting his lip against tears because crying at something so small seems insane, and says, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, I wanted to give you this pamphlet about our degree programs.” She hands it to him. “Have you thought about what programs you’re interested in at all?”

“I actually already applied to another college,” he says faintly, and his mom looks at him.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” says Ann. “Where did you apply?”

“NYU,” he says, but he says it so softly it just sounds like a meow.

“Where?” asks Ann.

“Um. NYU.”

“What?” whispers Karyn.

“That’s a great choice, Chris!” says Ann.

He nods, at his limit, and says, “Are we done now?”

“Chris, don’t be rude,” mumbles Karyn.

“I’d really like to go home,” he says more cuttingly.

Ann Li nods. Chris puts the pamphlets in his bag and gets up. He leaves while his mom and the Dean are still shaking hands, and makes sure to keep a safe distance ahead the whole walk to the car. When he slides into the passenger’s seat, he puts in headphones and looks straight ahead to make sure he doesn’t meet his mom’s eye. But after she starts the car, she pulls the headphone out of his left ear and says, in a tone that makes his heart catch in his chest, “Christopher.”

He looks at her, eyes glassy and defiant. She shakes her head, graying curls mirroring the dying light; she doesn’t look disapproving, but she looks desperately confused and betrayed, which is worse.

“Chris, honey, we can’t afford NYU, and it’s so far away,” she whispers. A beat. “Why would you pick a school so far away?”

“Because I…”

_Because I can’t stand it anymore. Because I’m sick of being the understudy. Because I’m sick of holding back everything I have to say, because I DO have things to say, no matter what anyone sees, I have things to say, things I will say, and I’m going to lose my mind if I spend one more day living like this._

“Chris,” murmurs Karyn, eyes dangerously bright.

“Mom, look – please don’t cry. I’ll apply to some more schools around here, too.”

“Chris, I just – I don’t want you getting your hopes up. I don’t think you’ll get into NYU with your grades.”

His gaze lingers on her for a moment. Then he throws open the car door, steps out, and starts towards the bus stop. His mom calls after him, but he ignores her, and a few minutes later he’s on his way across town to the library.

* * *

 

Darren sprints out of the market, tucking the paper-wrapped fish in his jacket pocket, and jumps on his rickety blue bike. He’s late. He promised he would pick up ingredients for dinner and be home at six, but he got distracted by the way the waves were crashing on the wharf, and he spent twenty minutes watching them. He quickly checks the list his mom wrote out, makes sure he has it all, and then starts up the streets of SoMa; he’s top-heavy with so many groceries, an unusual feeling for him, and he has trouble navigating the slippery wet sidewalks. When he finally abandons his bike on the side of the house and dashes inside, he can hear clattering in the kitchen. He bursts in, shaking the wetness out of his hair; all the space in the kitchen is taken up by his mom, grandma and aunts; they have four pans on the stove, and they’re all moving around each other, pulling out cutting boards and thick ceramic bowls; coffee is brewing in the corner, the pot rattling on the warming plate, and through the door to the living room, Darren can see Chuck and a few friends playing guitar; the whole apartment is warm with spices and music, and despite being so cramped, home is one of the only places Darren can breathe.

He hands the bag of groceries to his mom.

“Right on time…” she says sarcastically.

He smiles. “Sorry.” He hands her the fish from his jacket. “What’re you making?”

“Sinigáng,” she replies.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he moans. “It’s freezing outside.”

Cerina raises an eyebrow but then a laugh bubbles out. She pushes on his shoulder.

“Go on, no men in the kitchen.”

He grins and gives her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. Then he goes into the living room, and Chuck looks up at him with a brief smile.

“Hey Dare,” he mumbles, adjusting his capo.

“Hi,” says Darren, plopping down on the couch next to him and pulling his own guitar out from the side. “Mind if I play with you guys for a while?”

Chuck’s friends – Miram, a young lady with long red hair, Andy, a big-hearted frat boy, and Cora, a slender Black woman with light green eyes – all shake their heads. Chuck, however, pulls the guitar out of Darren’s hand.

“Not guitar, I’m playing that…” His voice goes deeper as he stretches to reach something. He pulls a mandolin from the side of the couch and hands it to his brother. “Think you can handle this?”

Darren lights up. “Yeah! Yeah, I love mandolin – okay, what are we playing…?”

“We’re just improvising right now…seeing what comes out of it…”

Darren nods. Chuck starts off, striking an A chord, and the rest of them fall in – mandolin, harmonium, glockenspiel (a word Darren never gets tired of saying.) They all play quietly, slowly for a while, watching each other’s fingers on the strings. Chuck always sets up his band near the kitchen, and Darren wonders if the mismatched clink of pots and pans inspires some of his music – Chuck’s songs always remind him of the sounds of cooking, which come together to create a beautiful, archetypal, ancient kind of music.

“The cadence is sort of weird…” says Chuck.

“What if you changed the key?” suggests Darren.

“Yeah, this sounds like a funeral march,” agrees his brother. “Okay guys, move to G Major.”

They play for a while more, picking up the tempo, and start to hum with the melody; then Darren starts singing _Cotton Eyed Joe_ , Chuck starts to laugh, and the beat falls apart. They’re just about to pick it up again when Daya, dragging a stuffed bear and looking bleary, shows up. She taps hard on Darren’s shin.

“Da Da!”

“Did she just call you dad?” murmurs Chuck.

“No, she just can’t pronounce my name – hi Daya! Hi, what’s up?”

“Hungry!” she says loudly.

“Well, dinner’s in little bit–”

“Hungry!” she repeats, so Darren sets aside the mandolin and gets to his feet.

“Okay,” he says, picking her up and smoothing her curly hair out of her eyes. “We’ll go read a book, okay? Until dinner?”

She frowns. Then, blood-curdling, shrieks, “MAMA!”

Darren winces, his left ear ringing, and hurries out of the room with her so his brother’s band can keep playing. Ainjyl, Daya’s mother, appears in the door to the kitchen holding a whisk and looking irritated.

“Did one of the boys pinch her?” she asks sharply.

“No, no she’s just hungry,” says Darren, balancing Daya on his hip. “I’ll go distract her.”

Ainjyl’s face softens. “Thank you.” Then she sighs. “She’s going to think you’re her dad.”

Daya’s real father is still in the Philippines. He didn’t consider himself up to raising a child, so he left Daya with Ainjyl, and ran away with another girl.

“Everybody seems to think that…” Darren says unsurely, glancing at Daya, who gave up resistance and snuggled her head against his shoulder.

Ainjyl sighs again and strokes her daughter’s hair. “Oh well. She loves you. No sense in fighting it.”

Darren gives a small smile and walks out of the room with Daya. He goes up the stairs, away from the scent of tamarind, shrimp and seared vegetables, and into his and Chuck’s room. It’s chilly and damp since Chuck left the window open, so Darren shuts it and turns on the string of lights above his bed, and then he gets under a thick, bumpy blanket with Daya. His eyes settle on the stack of books on the radiator and he reaches for Where the Wild Things Are.

* * *

Chris turns a brochure about NYU over and over in his slim fingers, one headphone in; he’s toggling the other one between his thumb and forefinger, a kind of nervous tick. He bites his lip and trips over the words…dreams…one of a kind…stand apart…do applicants really fall for all that? He sighs. He did. He fell for the promises of the big city, and if he was still in Clovis, he would hardly blame himself. But here he is in San Francisco, and he’s left this city completely unexplored because he’s….scared. Of wanting to stay? Or wanting to leave? He’s never sure lately. He thinks of Darren, who seems so sure, like a stripe of bright paint or a clear note. Undeniably alive and present. And he thinks of himself…quiet and set back. He wishes it was harder to hate himself, but it’s easy; it’s the easiest thing there is.

The next day at the library, Chris is distracted as he goes through the shelves and makes sure everything is in alphabetical order. What a sad, perfect job…it feeds his OCD just right. He keeps glancing up and looking around, hoping to see – but why would Darren come back? He was only here to find books for his paper, which he didn’t find. He probably returned the other books he took out and that was that.

“Chris!” snaps his coworker, the one that’s like a bossier Hermione Granger.

“Yeah…?” he replies, voice drifting as he calculates  _G, H, I, J…._

“That cute guy vandalized one of the books you checked out to him,” she says, and with a flip of her hair, disappears around the stack.

Chris stares. The he shoves a  _G_  book back in the  _I_  section and sprints after her.

“What do you mean vandalized?”

“He left a note!” she says as they pass through the swinging wooden door to go behind the counter.

“A note–?”

“Here,” she says, shoving  _Where the Wild Things Are_  into his hands.

Chris opens it to the flyleaf, eyes wide, and notices a yellow sticky note. Before reading it, he looks up at his coworker.

“Vandalism? Really? It’s just a sticky note.”

She crosses her arms and turns away. Chris looks back at the note, at the half-cursive handwriting.

_My cousin completely fell in love with this book. You’re amazing. Official Minister of Children’s Books – that’s you. Sorry I couldn’t stop by in person but I was late for an audition. My number’s on the back if you want to text me. I’d love to walk around the wharf or something with you and tell you all about the city. – Darren_

Chris feels like he swallowed a big glob of Elmer’s glue. He turns the note over, expecting a “haha tricked you sucker” instead of a real phone number, but there it is in loopy lettering: his phone number. Chris takes a steadying breath and tucks the note away like it’s classified information, and he goes back into the stacks to alphabetize the mystery novels. Then he reaches into his pocket like a reflex and types Darren’s number into his phone.

Darren, meanwhile, is pacing the teal colored hallway next to the auditorium at his college, playing with the funny fuzzy hair on the back of his head. He’s still not used to short hair, the way the strands curl close to his head like little Q’s. The production this year is a series of One Act Plays, so there isn’t exactly a lead to audition for, but he’s still game and he’s still nervous. The good kind of nervous, like fizzy candy. Soon he’ll have saved up enough money to go to the East Coast, and every production he’s in from this point forward is important. Sometimes, though, he feels like the harder he works, the more he auditions, the more likely it is that he’ll actually get to go. And while he wants to be an individual, separate himself, he also wants to stay. If he leaves, it will mean being away from home for the first time, away from Chuck and his mom and dad and Daya, away from the little SoMa nest packed with music and spices and aunts fighting for the mirror and children and dogs and a freezer that never quite works. Sometime he can barely stand the thought of leaving.

“Criss, Darren!”

He jumps up and down two times and shakes out his hands before walking out on stage.

* * *

Chris is in the middle of pulling on a pair of socks (it’s a chilly, foggy night and though he feels morally opposed to sleeping in socks, sometimes he doesn’t have a choice) when his phone vibrates. He spasms, falls against his desk, throws the socks down, and grabs his phone out of the blankets on his bed.

_From Darren: 8:45 pm – Sorry I missed your text. I was at work all day but I’m free now._

_From Chris: 8:46 pm – It’s not too late?_

Darren doesn’t reply for a minute and Chris drags his single bare foot across the carpet. Then the phone rings in his hands and he jumps. He stares at the tiny, lit-up name. Darren. Then he presses the talk button like it has the chance of deploying a bomb and says, “Hello?”

“Hey, Chris, it’s Darren!”

“Hi.”

“Sorry about missing you earlier. I was at work pretty late. Where do you live? We could meet for coffee or something since it’s cold and then I could show you around a part of the city where we won’t get, you know, mugged.”

Chris squints. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Oh, yeah, San Francisco is really dangerous.”

“That’s…”

“We’ll be totally safe, and besides, a little danger is fun.”

“Right…”

“So, where do you live?”

“Oh, um, Glen Park.”

“Aw, fuck, do you have a yard?”

Chris laughs. “Yeah.”

Darren groans. “Ugh, that’s awesome. We just have a tiny strip of grass that dies every summer.”

“That’s extremely sad.”

“Isn’t it? So…Glen Park…I’ll pick you up, yeah?”

“Well, where do you live?”

“Harrison Street, it’s like….six miles or so from you but I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure? I could probably ride the bus…”

“Nah, I’ll pick you up. How about that coffee shop on Diamond Street?”

“Sure.”

“Dress warm.”

“I…will.”

“Bye Chris.”

Chris keeps holding the phone to his ear for a full minute. Then he plunges into the bathroom to shower, praying there’s traffic so Darren takes a while, and shivers under the water, which isn’t quite warm enough. A date. He’s going on a date. Is this a date? This is not a date. It’s a friendly thing. Darren’s a friendly guy. A guy who’s not exactly gay. Which was probably just a sarcastic way of saying he’s straight. He’s straight, right? Chris shakes his hair out under the water and suddenly the situation strikes him as profoundly weird. It must be a date, because this isn’t something friends do – and yet, the idea of it being a date doesn’t gel at all. They’ve barely spoken, and if they were flirtatious, it was only for a moment. If it was a date, he would know it’s a date, so logically, if he doesn’t know it’s a date, it isn’t a date. He decides it’s just a friendly offer, though a weird one, and relaxes a little under the water.

He towels dry and stretches the muscles that the hot water loosened, and then he steps into a pair of soft jeans and a beige thermal sweater. He takes his contacts out and puts on his glasses (which he found hiding in the Monopoly box, thanks to his sister) and brushes his teeth. 

He’s just turned the water back on when the thought of kissing Darren hits him like a rogue wave, and he quickly spits the blue foam into the sink.  _Get a hold of yourself._ He takes a last look in the mirror.  _Don’t think about things like that._  Then he pockets his phone and his wallet and goes to sit with his parents, who are watching TV. The chef on the screen is de-veining shrimp and talking about the best shops to buy curry. Karyn glances at Chris and squints at his appearance.

“What’s…going on?” she asks lightly.

“I was going to meet one of my friends for coffee… I won’t be gone that long. Is that okay?”

His dad, Tim, also squints. “You’re meeting a friend for coffee? That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “So…?”

Karyn and Tim glance at each other. Then Karyn shrugs and turns back to her son.

“Fine, hun, go have fun,” she says bemusedly.

“Great,” says Chris, jumping off the couch and pulling his car keys off the hook near the door. He walks down the foggy driveway and gets in his car, a sturdy hatchback, and starts down the street. He’s still a little unfamiliar with the neighborhood, but he finds the coffee shop without much trouble. Then, deciding he would feel better with a drink in his hand (it’s a good distraction, a lid to chew on, whipped cream to eat) he goes inside and orders a vanilla macchiato. When it’s done, he sits at one of the weathered glass tables outside, and raises an eyebrow when a sky blue Volkswagen Rabbit that looks lucky to be running pulls up. Darren pops out of it like a spring and smiles at Chris over the hood.

“Hey!” he shouts.

“Hi,” returns Chris.

Darren comes up to him and takes a seat. His eyes are like amber in the light from the shops and he’s grinning – Chris notices he’s usually grinning, and not just grinning. Grinning like he’s just had the best day of his life. It’s extremely charming. He’s wearing a gray sweater that hugs his shoulders nicely, and he rests his chin on his hand and looks at Chris.

“I see you got coffee without me,” he says.

“I see you drove a junkyard car here,” Chris replies.

Darren laughs. “Yeah, we’ll be lucky to make it back downtown.”

Chris laughs, too. Then he says, “Oh. You’re serious.”

“Oh, yeah, that thing is a death trap so this should be an adventure.”

Chris raises a soft eyebrow, sucking his cheeks in a little, and Darren’s eyes grow a little darker, like he wouldn’t mind watching Chris judge him forever. But Chris says,

“Did you want a coffee?”

“Huh – oh, yeah! Yeah, I’ll go get something.”

He goes through the dinging door of the coffee shop and Chris glances unsurely at the car. Then, deciding he doesn’t have anything better to do than risk his life with a cute boy, takes a hearty sip of coffee.

Darren, standing in line, realizes that he isn’t sure why he’s here. Then again, he feels that way pretty often. He follows his instinct and ends up places he never would have thought he’d be, so the feeling never really unsettles him. He’s used to surprising himself, and he’s okay with ambiguity. He doesn’t have to know the why behind what he does like some people do. So he’ll go with getting coffee with a boy he barely knows because – because Chris is interesting. Darren had trouble walking away from him in the library, and biking home, question after question flooded in. Did he want to figure Chris out? Was it pure curiosity that led him here?

“Yeah, I’ll have, um – hot chocolate with whipped cream please, biggest size you’ve got.”

The barista gives Darren a look like she’s not sure that many carbs are a good idea for someone so small, but she writes the order out on a cup and Darren waits. A moment later, drink in hand, he goes to sit with Chris. He’s about to say something, but Chris beats him to it.

“Is this a date?”

Darren watches him, amused and slightly open-mouthed. Then he takes a drink of hot chocolate. “This is whatever you want it to be.” He wrinkles his nose. “That was a really douchey thing to say. Sorry. This is — I just think you’re interesting.”

Chris swishes his coffee around in his mouth uncomfortably. But he says, “Okay. I think you’re interesting too.”

“Cool, I’m totally boring, but maybe I can hold up that illusion for a while.”

“I’m sure you’re not boring.”

“I’m really boring,” Darren assures him. “I spend my whole life watching Star Wars and planning what to eat.”

Chris grins. “You like Star Wars? Because I do too.”

Darren hesitates for a split second. Then he sits back and says, “Okay, what do you think about the idea that Qui-Gon is actually a Sith?”

“No, no way,” says Chris, a steady, relaxed smile coming over him.

“But what about Count Dooku–?”

“No, Qui-Gon was just a shitty trainer.”

“Uh uh, he was up to something.”

“He’s not a Sith! His lightsaber–”

“Colors are not conclusive!”

“They are too! So no.” Chris makes a gassy sound with his tongue and points his thumbs down. “Nope.”

Darren shakes his head, grinning widely. “You’ll see. One day, there will be a Snape-style reveal that Qui-Gon was secretly evil.”

“You know Snape was secretly  _good_  right?” asks Chris.

“Oh yeah, yeah,” says Darren over a sip of hot chocolate. “But I’m not sold on that either. He could have been a lot nicer to Neville.”

“Everyone could have been a lot nicer to Neville,” says Chris.

“Except Lupin. Lupin was always nice to Neville.”

Chris sighs. “Poor Lupin.” Then, smiling, he looks at Darren’s car. “Not to be impatient or anything, but –“

“–but I promised to show you the sights,” agrees Darren, getting up. “C’mon, then!”

Chris follows him to the car, which on the inside, is surprisingly warm and comfortable. Darren moves some sheet music and a couple old water bottles out of the way for Chris to sit down. He looks at Chris, and once again, gets stuck on the way the light touches his face and the curve of his mouth. Chris goes slightly pink but looks back.

Then Darren says abruptly, “But you can’t tell me Hans Solo isn’t a Jedi.”

Chris bursts out laughing and shouts, “Yes I can tell you that! Where are you getting your theories from?”

“No, I’m telling you – and Obi Wan totally knew.”

Chris covers his face and laughs. “Oh my God, no.” Then he peeks at Darren. “Okay, let’s say he was a Jedi–”

Darren whoops and starts the car. “Good enough for me!”

“Hey, Mister, I did not just agree with you–”

“You totally just agreed with me,” says Darren, pulling away from the curb and ignoring the threatening clunk of the engine.

Chris folds his arms and rolls his eyes. Then he says, “OK. We’re getting to know each other. Tell me what growing up in the Philippines was like.”

“Well…” says Darren, turning onto the highway, “…it was really hot, we ate a lot of fish…” He shrugs and smiles distantly. “At this point it sort of seems like another planet than another part of my life, you know what I mean? We moved when I was 8, and…or not another planet,” he corrects himself. “A dream. Yeah, a dream. I spent the whole time swimming and running around the markets and…” He drifts off. “It was kind of magical.”

“Wow,” Chris says softly. “I wish I could talk about Clovis that way but it…well, you know. Maybe it’s nice for some people.”

“Just not for you, I get that,” says Darren. “You have to find a place that really feels like home.”

“Definitely,” says Chris. “I’m hoping New York works out.”

“Ah, yeah,” says Darren. “I have no clue what I’m doing and the idea of leaving my whole family is making me pretty sad lately.”

Chris nods. Then, focusing his eyes on the floor of the car, he says, “Me too. My – my sister’s really sick, she always has been, and I don’t feel right about leaving. But I really need to leave.”

Darren chances a look at him. He asks softly, “Are you out to your family?”

Chris shakes his head. “No – actually you’re the only person I’ve ever told.”

“What?” Darren says in surprise. “Really? Why?”

Chris looks at him and replies honestly, “I have no idea.”

They’re comfortably quiet for a while, the city growing lighter and faster. Chris thinks about the fact that he’s never felt comfortable just being with someone, side-by-side but still connected; he’s always felt pressure to talk and prove himself, but not with Darren. And Darren thinks on the fact that Chris came out to him, and is very moved.

He breaks the silence first. “So, there’s a bunch of stuff I’d love to show you but since it’s nighttime we might have to reschedule…”

“So why’d you agree to go tonight?” asks Chris.

“Oh, I just wanted to see you, you know,” says Darren. “So what if we walked around downtown a little and got something to eat and then this weekend we can do all the big stuff like Union Square and Chinatown and — oh yeah, you have to see the parrots!”

“Parrots?”

“Yeah, there are these wild parrots on Telegraph Hill! Oh, they’re so pretty.”

Chris raises an eyebrow.

“And – hey, you know what? I think that music festival is still going on!”

“Which one?”

“The uh…” Darren drums on the steering wheel. “Outside Lands, yeah, that’s what it’s called! Oh, we should totally go–”

Eventually they agree to get some noodles and walk around the piers. It’s a chilly night, almost September, and the fog is thick on the shoreline; it’s still fairly busy downtown, but the mist deadens the noise, and Chris and Darren walk around in their own little bubble, slurping noodles out of takeaway containers while Darren points things out.

“Mm, that place has really good ice cream,” says Darren, catching some peanut sauce on the corner of his mouth with his tongue. “They have lobster flavor and jalapeno and all sorts of weird stuff.”

Chris grimaces around his chopsticks. “Who would want to ruin ice cream like that?”

Darren grins. “Well, I’ll try anything once, so I’ve eaten some pretty scary things.”

“Like what?” queries Chris. “What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever put in your mouth?”

Darren’s about to speak, smirking heavily, but he seems to reconsider. “I was going to make a joke but seeing as I don’t know you that well…”

“Yeah,” Chris says dryly. “What if I’m a moralizing religious lunatic?”

Darren shoots a grin at him. Then he says, “Bone marrow. That stuff was pretty scary. What about you?”

“Ugh, haggis,” shudders Chris. “We went to Ireland a couple years ago and ended up in Scotland and ended up eating haggis.”

“What’s that?” asks Darren.

“It’s a bunch of organs boiled inside a stomach,” says Chris, crunching a bean sprout in his teeth. “Sounds really good, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yeah,” says Darren. “Who doesn’t like boiled organs?”

“Exactly, they’re delicious,” replies Chris, adding, “You were gonna make a dick joke earlier, weren’t you?”

Darren grins appreciatively and nods. Chris, amazed at himself for having a conversation like this without turning red, squeaking, or oversharing, grins back.

Then he says, cautious, “So, do you mind me asking…?”

“Oh, oh yeah, I left you hanging at the library,” remembers Darren. “You’re talking about me being not exactly gay, right?”

“Right,” Chris says, holding his breath.

Darren pops a carrot into his mouth. “Well, I don’t really like to use labels, so I guess I’d say I’m not straight or gay. I just like who I like. Girls, guys, anybody.”

“So you’re pan?” asks Chris softly. “If you were going to use a label?”

Darren nods. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

Then Chris smiles. “You better hope you never get famous. That’s going to be impossible to explain.”

Darren laughs loudly and smiles back. “Luckily that’s never going to happen.”

They turn a corner, heading towards SoMa, and the wind picks up over the ocean. Chris can taste salt on his lips.

“You live around here, right?” he asks.

“Yeah, in a big apartment with a bunch of crazy Filipinos.”

Chris makes a tiny noise of amusement. “Are you completely Filipino or…?

“I’m only half – not even half, actually. I’m a mix of Asian on my mom’s side and Irish on my dad’s.”

“Oh, I’m Irish,” says Chris in surprise.

“Yeah, I can tell by the freckles,” says Darren teasingly, somehow already aware they annoy Chris.

Sure enough, Chris sighs and rubs at his cheek. “They’re awful.”

“No, they’re not,” says Darren. “I love freckles.”

Chris rolls his eyes but, despite himself, feels a little better. They keep walking, occasionally bumping elbows, and Darren’s tour turns into a personal history as they get deeper and deeper into Market Street.  _And that’s where I burned the roof of my mouth on lumpia, and that’s where I kissed a guy for the first time, and that’s where Chuck got on my nerves and I shoved him and he almost got hit by a car and my mom beat me with a bottle of ice tea, and that’s where I found a stray hamster, and that’s where–_

Darren can talk endlessly, but Chris doesn’t mind; the cadence of his voice is like a bubbling river, and his childhood is infinitely fascinating bordering on unbelievable, and Chris has never met someone with this kind of enthusiasm, even for small things; he points out plants growing in cracks in the sidewalk, and shoes hanging in the large ash trees bordering the street; he swears loudly (“Fuck yeah!”) when he notices a food cart selling funnel cake, and Chris has to grab his arm to pull him away.

“So,” says Darren through a mouthful of spongy, gooey cake (Chris was unsuccessful in keeping Darren away), “I never asked you why you moved up to San Francisco!”

“Oh, um…” The air turns cold. Chris uses up a minute by stealing a bite of funnel cake. “We moved for my sister. There’s better treatment facilities up here for here. She has epilepsy except meds won’t help so it’s pretty overwhelming for my parents.”

“How old is she?” Darren asks softly.

“She’s fourteen,” says Chris. “She has a really good attitude about it, but she has to go to the hospital a lot and every time that happens she just seems…older, which is really sad.”

“You probably had to grow up fast, too,” mentions Darren.

Chris nods. “Hannah’s so much work for both my parents that I had to learn to take care of myself. Maybe that’s why I…”

“Why you?” prompts Darren.

“Don’t mind being alone,” says Chris quietly, and they look at each other.

Chris doesn’t understand why it’s so easy to talk to Darren – too easy. He’s already told him more than he’s ever told anyone, but he wants to tell him more. He wants to keep unburdening himself; keep giving away his pain; keep exchanging.

“Well, feeling alone is a funny thing,” says Darren after a pause that took both their breath away. “Because I feel alone, and I’m completely surrounded by people. Really, really good people, people who love me.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what my problem is.”

Chris shrugs too, smiling. “You have to feel like you matter. You have to find someone that you…matter to.”

He doesn’t know where the words are coming from, but Darren smiles brightly and takes another bite of funnel cake.

“That’s true,” he says. “And even if you matter to some people, maybe you don’t matter in the right way. Like…I know my family loves me, but I want someone to notice me for my art because that has nothing to do with me being a son or a brother or whatever. It’s its own thing. It’s…objective.”

Chris nods. “I know what you mean. Because then you know what you have is real.”

Darren hesitates, fork hovering over the funnel cake. He passes it to Chris, and after another moment, says, “OK, this might seem like a total humblebrag, but I have an audition for Tisch next weekend. Would you…come with me?”

Chris is startled. “Why would you want me to come with you?”

Darren actually blushes. “Because maybe…you’re the person that I matter to.“

Chris watches him, lit by the amber tones of the street lights. Darren might be blushing, but he’s not shy, and he looks right back. After a moment, Chris realizes he’s about to snap the flimsy plastic fork in his fingers, so he drops his gaze. So does Darren. Chris has a vague idea what Darren’s talking about, but this is the first time he’s had a friend, and if there’s something more than that underneath, he won’t look at it too closely. He keeps walking. He doesn’t ask the question on the tip of his tongue because he’s already asked it, and Darren is too good at being cryptic. Then Darren brushes a bit of powdered sugar off of Chris’s cheek and Chris loses track of the conversation for several minutes, because he’s too busy thinking _damn you and your enigmatic sexuality and your huge lips._

“So, do you work?” he asks, pulling himself together.

“Yeah, yeah, I help my aunt at her grocery store. My family’s really serious about working to make a living, so I’m doing that instead of just being in college.”

“Mine too,” agrees Chris. “Plus we’re…we don’t have that much money with Hannah and everything, so…”

“San Francisco’s a really expensive place to live, too,” says Darren sympathetically.

“It’s insane,” says Chris. “I was looking at getting my own apartment but there’s no way.”

“Oh, fuck, I know. My friend Lauren and I were going to move in with our friend Joe, but we couldn’t afford it at all. I have no idea how I’m going to live in New York, but I guess there’s always the Pretty Woman route…”

“Mm,” says Chris noncommittally. “Yeah, you should totally become a prostitute. I mean, you do have the ass for it.”

Darren looks at Chris with wide, shocked eyes and an open mouth. Chris grins sheepishly and Darren bursts out laughing.

“Sorry,” murmurs Chris, smirking around a bite of cake.

“Hey, don’t apologize, that’s a huge compliment,” says Darren.

“It really is a  _huge_ –”

“Okay, Chris.”

“And who wouldn’t want to have sex with Richard Gere on a piano?”

“Exactly,” says Darren. “Vivian Ward had it good.”

Chris covers his face and laughs. “God.”

They keep passing the funnel cake back and forth, talking easily; it’s nearly midnight by the time Darren realizes they’ve gone too far into the city, and they half-walk, half-jog back towards SoMa, increasingly nervous about alleyways and shuffling passersby. When they’re back, they collapse laughing into the front seat, and Chris gives a tiny shout when Darren accidentally bumps the steering wheel and blares the horn; then they look at each other and laugh some more.

“I should take you home, it’s late,”says Darren chivalrously after a moment.

Chris reaches for his seat belt. “You’re sure you don’t mind the drive?”

“Not at all,” says Darren, and goes to start the car.

But it just shudders. He tries again. Another shudder, a promising moment where the engine revs, and then silence.

“Oh, fuck,” Darren says savagely. Then he shakes the steering wheel. “C’mon, hun, no no no! Don’t die now!”

The car makes a defeated squeaking sound.

“Oh my God,” he goes on, horror-struck and matter-of-fact. “I forgot to get gas. My mom is going to kill me.”

Chris’s eyes dart around the chilly car. “Do have any extra in here…?”

“No…oh hell. Okay. Sorry, Chris.”

Chris smiles at the way his name sounds in a boy’s mouth. Then he shakes himself and turns back to the immediacy of the situation.

“You live nearby, right?”

Darren nods.

“Well, you could go home and I can take a bus–”

“Aw, no, you can’t take a bus home. I would be, like, the worst friend ever if you had to do that.” He pauses, breath fogging in the air. And then he says, “Alright! It’s the only option. We have to walk and get some gas.”

Chris hesitates.

“Please? Walk and get gas with me? I don’t want to go alone. It’s really dark.”

Chris looks at Darren, sitting folded in the driver’s seat, his knees against his chest; his bottom lip has an indentation in it, like he’s been worrying it between his teeth nervously all night. Chris’s gaze pools over him. It’s later than he’s ever been out in his life, and he’s in a defunct car with a boy who shines like the sun. It’s bizzare.

“OK,” says Chris. “But you owe me.”

Darren beams as he gets up. “I’ll give you my first born, c’mon, let’s get walking!”

Chris gets out of the car too and Darren locks it. Then they look up and down Van Ness, and Darren decides to go left. They walk along the storefronts, across the street from the wharf, and glance at each other as they pass under a street lamp. They both smile – Darren a broad, bright smile, and Chris a small, quirking one – and then Darren plays with a ring on his left middle finger, something Chris hadn’t noticed before. It’s hammered silver, a little loose.

“Do you always wear that?” asks Chris, gesturing.

“Oh.” Darren turns a peachy color, which Chris thinks is outrageously unfair;  _who looks attractive when they’re blushing?_  “Yeah, I do.”

“Is it for something in particular?” Chris goes on, not sure why he’s so curious.

“It’s…well, it’s kind of silly,” Darren admits, smiling again, blinking his huge lashes. “I just…wear it to remind myself of where I’ve been? I – I didn’t get it anywhere it particular. I just sort of…assigned that meaning to it. It’s important for me to keep everything I’ve gone through with me, and to be grateful, and keep trying and be true to myself – and that’s why I wear it.”

Chris holds his gaze for a long time. Then he says, earnestly, “That’s really nice.”

Darren smiles. “I’ve been looking for a new one, actually. I’m getting a little tired of the silver.” He laughs. “Chuck told me I should just get a tattoo, but…”

“But tattoos are permanent?” guesses Chris.

“Yes, and I don’t think I’ll really want a tattoo of – of Snoopy on my saggy pecs when I’m 75.”

Chris giggles. “That was the first thing you jumped to?”

Darren grins into his hands and shakes his head. Chris laughs some more.

“You’ve thought about tattooing Snoopy on your pecs?”

“No I just–”

“Well, I mean, I can’t think of anything sexier than a cartoon dog on–”

Darren shoves him lightly, and Chris shoves back; the world holds still for a moment when Darren brushes Chris’s hand with his own; and then the lights come back on, and they’re left looking at each other, closer than before. They’ve stopped walking.

“Hi,” says Darren softly, debating. Based on what Chris has told him, he’s probably never kissed anyone, and Darren doesn’t want to take that first from him just for a moment of fun. He also doesn’t want to come across as completely two-faced and unforthcoming, and kissing Chris right now would likely leave a strange impression. Then again, kissing Chris right now is what he wants to do, and there’s a hint of wetness on his lips already, and his eyes are so full…

“Hi…” Chris returns cautiously, aware of what Darren’s thinking, though hardly daring to believe it. He’s never had a boy interested in him; he’s never had a boy even look at him. “So should we keep walking…?”

Darren struggles for a moment. He’s positive he has the struck-by-a-coconut look right now. Then he shakes his head, coming to, and spots a gas station directly ahead.

“Oh look,” he breathes. “Right there.”

Chris swallows. “Okay…I mean, good…I mean – “

“You’re just really gorgeous. I got distracted, I’m sorry.”

Chris thinks about what drowning must be like, that instinctive gulp of water everyone takes as they go under…

“Oh,” he whispers. They’re still not walking. “Thank you.” And in a smaller voice, “I don’t hear that very often.”

“Then people are blind,” Darren says softly, smiling and finally taking a step.

Chris takes one too, and they go into the gas station a moment later; the door dings gently, and Darren goes to talk with the gas station attendant about buying some gas. Chris breathes out in relief and looks at the cologne, cigarettes and Advil. He’s just reached out to touch a key chain when something cold presses into the small of his back. He jumps and turns, and sees Darren grinning with a tub of ice cream in his hand.

“You said I owed you. Here’s some ice cream.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to–”

“Dude, I want some too, it’s peanut butter cup.” Darren holds up two spoons. He nudges the gas cans at his feet. “Ready?”

Chris nods and accepts the spoons with a small smile.

“You have to feed me since I’m carrying these,” says Darren.

“No,” Chris says flatly.

Darren fakes a look of deep betrayal. “Chris.”

Chris pushes him lightly, laughing, “Go. Get out of here. I want to go home.”

They walk back onto the street together, Darren with the cans of gas, Chris with a huge tub of ice cream.

“Thanks,” he adds, glancing quickly at Darren. “I love peanut butter cup.”

“Only Satan doesn’t like peanut butter cup,” says Darren.

“Or people who are allergic,” suggests Chris.

“Nah, they’re all demons. You cannot be human and not like peanut butter.”

Chris cracks up. Then he spoons up a bite with a huge, oozing peanut butter cup and nudges Darren. “Open up.”

“Aww, I love you, man,” says Darren, eyes heavy. He takes the bite and moans. “Mmhmm. Only demons don’t like this.”

Chris keeps laughing, eyes flashing helplessly onto Darren’s features.

They reach the car fifteen minutes later, having walked most of the way quietly. But as he’s opening the gas tank, Darren speaks up.

“Why did you ask me about my ring? I – just – I’ve never had someone ask me, is all. And it’s seemed like you knew it was important.”

“Oh,” breathes Chris, rubbing his fingers, numb from the ice cream, together. “I just–”

And as he explains, broken words and stutters, Darren can see clearly what it would be like to drop the gas cans, cross the distance, and kiss him; and he knows his heart is already in too far.

“–so, that’s, that’s why I asked you, because–”

“Chris.”

“–and I–”

“Chris!”

Chris looks up from his explanation, to where Darren is standing, smiling smitten, holding the cans loosely in his hands.

“What?” he asks.

“Will – will you get dinner with me on Saturday? I really loved hanging out with you.”

Chris stares. Then he says, “Were you going to kiss me earlier?”

Darren pauses. He sets the gas cans down and takes a breath. “No.”

He hates lying, but in the moment he feels out of options.

“Oh. Um. So – you’re asking me to dinner because…?”

“Because I think you’re interesting.”

Chris moves his lips around a smile, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Right.”

“So…?”

“I’ll go to dinner with you.”

“Fuck, thank you! Okay, how about seven?”

“Seven is good,” says Chris with a smile. “Now will you fill your car up? It’s two in the morning.”

* * *

“I just – man, I  – I feel like I lead people on all the time, because I just – I like people. And I like hooking up with people, and connecting with them, and it’s like I’ve fallen into this pattern where I don’t know how to make friends anymore, because everyone I look at is a potential relationship, and…”

“Sounds like you’re thinking with your dick, man.”

Darren and Joe are drinking beer at Joe’s apartment, and they’ve already had too much. They’re lying on Joe’s dismantled sofa, staring at the ceiling together, amber bottles chilling their hands as their eyes wander.

“No, it’s not that at all. I’m…thinking with my heart.”

Joe makes a gagging sound.

“Shut up! I know how that sounded.”

“Gay. It sounded gay.”.

“It’s like I’m in love with everyone,” Darren sighs, ignoring him. “Does that make sense?”

“No,” says Joe, sounding awestruck by his friend’s stupidity. “No, man. That does not make sense.”

“Maybe I’m just in love with him.”

Joe sits up slightly. “What? Who?”

“This…guy I met a few days ago.”

“You have a boyfriend and you didn’t tell me?”

“No, he’s my friend and that’s the problem, and I don’t think I just want to hook up, but I don’t want to ask him out because he’s sort of…he’s been through a lot. And I don’t even know how I feel about him. But I just…I can’t get him off my mind.”

Joe turns and smiles lightly at Darren. “You have it bad.”

“I don’t know what I have.”

“Syphilis. You have syphilis. That can go to your brain, you know.”

Darren shakes his head. “I don’t know what to do…”

Joe looks at him for a moment. Then he sits up, drains the last bit of foamy beer from his bottle, and claps his knee. “Okay, this is the plan. You’re going to get laid, so you’re not thinking about that all the time, you know, sort of set up a scientific experiment. If you get the idea of sleeping with that guy off your mind – hence getting laid – then you’ll know how you actually feel. And meanwhile, you’ll just practice being his friend, since you’re so bad at that.”

Darren smiles glumly. “I love you.”

Joe wrinkles his nose. “C’mon, man. Get a grip.”

“No, I do. I seriously love you. You always know what to say.” Then he sits up too. “But I was kind of…I don’t know. Saving that.”

“Darren, c’mon, you’ll love it – it’s ten times better than blow jobs.”

“I know, Joe, I just…okay.”

“Well. Don’t do it if you don’t want to.”

“No, I just – I really want it to be with someone I care about.”

Joe looks divinely inspired. “What about Lauren? Then it wouldn’t really count and–”

“No, Joe! Fuck! Fuck, what is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know. I just think you’re cute together.”

“No, we dated before so that’s…weird. How drunk are you?”

Joe shrugs, cracking open another beer. “Okay. Look. You’re Darren Criss. You try everything…eating chocolate covered beetles, sucking dick, cliff diving, you know. You’re not afraid of anything. And it’s sex. It’s not murder. I mean…unless everything goes terribly wrong. So we’re going to that party at Delta Gamma next week, and there’s this girl there I think you’d love, and you’re going to hook up with her and it’s going to solve all your boy problems.”

* * *

Chris shelves a final book before heading home. He’s tired after being up so late with Darren, but for the first time he can remember, he feels grounded. He thought meeting Darren and going on a cryptic date with him would leave him confused and ashamed. Instead, he feels solid and alive, like Darren reminded him that he’s a person, a person capable of being noticed, of being loved. And even if that’s not what’s going on, even if he’s read Darren all wrong, even if he never sees Darren again, it was worth it. He actually smiles on his way inside the house. It all feels more manageable – being gay, caring for his sister, going to New York. Somehow, inexplicably, it feels right. Darren isn’t afraid of his messy, confusing life. Darren isn’t impatient and anxious all the time. Darren believes, despite everything, that his life will be okay in the end…and if Darren can believe that, so can Chris. He knows they’re different people with vastly different lives, but being with Darren comforts him, and for once, he isn’t going to dwell too much on why.

“Hey, Hannah!” Chris says brightly as he drops his bag by the door.

“Hi, Cheerful,” she says from her place on the couch next to Karyn. “You were out late last night.”

Chris rolls his eyes and sits next to her. He glances at the TV. “What are you watching?”

She’s about to reply when her eyes go gray and blank and she fades out of focus.

“Mom,” Chris says sharply, and Karyn immediately cradles Hannah into her side. Chris sits next to them and moves Hannah’s hair out of her face. He and his mom meet eyes briefly, and then Hannah breathes out shakily and her muscles relax.

“Are you okay?” Karyn asks softly.

Hannah swallows and nods.

“Take a deep breath, honey,” Karyn goes on.

Hannah takes a few breaths and looks hesitantly at Chris; but for once, he doesn’t look uncomfortable, and he smiles affirmingly at her.

“Grey’s Anatomy,” she says.

“What?” asks Chris.

“We were watching Grey’s Anatomy.”

It’s incredible how well she does just moments after a seizure.

“Ooh, how’s McDreamy?” Chris asks in what he hopes is an interested-brother tone and not an I’d-hit-that one.

“He’s dead,” Hannah says sadly.

“They – they killed McDreamy?” asks Chris.

“Afraid so!” says Hannah. “He was overrated anyway.” Then she nudges her mom. “Can I have some water?”

Karyn nods and goes in the kitchen. As soon as she’s gone, Hannah grabs the remote and mutes the television. Then she looks piercingly at Chris, who’s eyes immediately widen in alarm.

“I saw you come home last night,” she says quietly.

“Mm,” says Chris.

“It was a boy in the car with you.”

“Mm hmm.”

The siblings look into each other’s eyes, reading the signs. Then a small smile flits over Hannah’s mouth.

“Chris?”

Chris covers his face and starts shaking his head. “No, no no, Hannah, please don’t ask the question that you’re about t–”

“Chris, you’re gay,” Hannah says in a clear, quiet voice. “You’re just  _gay_.”

Chris peeks through his fingers, frozen. Hannah smiles wider, satisfied.

“I’m right. It’s not like I’ll tell anyone. And he was cute.”

Chris stares at her a moment longer. Then he bites back something between a laugh and a sob. Hannah shoots a grin at him and latches her arms around his middle forcefully.

“It’s so obvious,” she says, voice muffled against his ribs.

“Y-yeah.” His voice is shaking. “I guess. G-God, Hannah, I – “

“Kept that inside for so long?”

He wipes his eyes and nods. “Yeah.”

She pulls away and smiles, and then her eyes go blank for the second time, and Chris puts an arm around her.

* * *

Darren scrutinizes his hair in the mirror at Joe’s apartment, squinting and turning his head in different directions. Lauren, who’s next to him putting on her makeup, rolls her eyes. Joe bursts in with a bag of Funyuns.

“Anybody want some? Man, I am so PUMPED! I – hey, why are you two sharing the bathroom?”

“We’re having wild sex, obviously,” says Lauren, gesturing with some lipstick, “What does it look like?”

Darren laughs. “Yeah, Joe, jeez. Give us some privacy.”

Joe scrutinizes them, then makes the universal “I’m watching you” gesture, and disappears with a crinkle of the Funyuns bag.

“He’s an idiot,” says Lauren with a sigh. “I love him.”

“He’s way ahead of us,” replies Darren, rubbing some mousse in his hair. “We need to catch up.”

“He bought peach Pinnacle,” says Lauren, shuddering.

“Alcohol is alcohol,” Darren says brightly.

Then he sucks his cheeks in and looks in the mirror. Lauren stares.

“Are you practicing the look?”

“What look?”

“The  _sexy_  look?”

“N-no–”

She puts on a high voice. “Oh, I’m Darren Criss and I have a beautiful face! I just have to keep looking at myself! I can’t stop looking at myself! I’m just so beautiful!”

Darren laughs. “Lauren–”

“Have you seen how beautiful I am? Have you seen my chiselled jawline? Have you noticed my plump tomato lips?”

“Lauren–”

She plops her makeup bag next to him and bumps him over with her hip.

“And my body, my god! I’m like a tiny Greek god–”

“Okay! I get it! I’ll stop!”

She sticks her tongue out at him in the reflection, and then her expression softens. “You look fine. You’ll make someone very happy tonight I’m sure. Gross.”

“Joe told me I should just sleep with you,” says Darren, dabbing cologne on the base of his throat.

“Joe what?” hisses Lauren.

Darren smirks and shrugs. Lauren stares. Then she grins.

“Maybe you should. I’m  _very_  good–”

Darren shoves her. “Eww, Lauren, get out of here!”

She laughs and marches out of the bathroom. A moment later Darren hears her scream, “JOE WALKER! I’LL SHOVE THOSE FUNYUNS UP YOUR FLAT LITTLE ASS!”

Darren makes it out of the bathroom a few minutes later and finds Joe and Lauren in the kitchen pointing condiment bottles at each other. But Joe drops his at the sight of Darren and quickly pours a shot of peach vodka.

“Pregame a little, my man!”

“Just don’t pregame too hard,” says Lauren, “Or you might…” She holds the mustard bottle to her crotch and slowly lowers it, signifying a limp dick. “ _You know_.”

Darren grins and takes the shot. He shakes his head. “That’s so gross, Joe. So gross.”

“Told you,” murmurs Lauren.

“It’s peach!” Joe says in outrage. “Who doesn’t like peach?” He shakes his head and pours a round for everybody. “OK, game plan, we walk to Delta Gamma, drink some more, socialize, and I’ll introduce Darren to some girls and Lauren and I will wait for you to, you know…”

“Creepy!” Lauren says ecstatically.

“…well, not wait. And then we’ll dance and drink to celebrate and go home.”

Darren grins, picking up his glass and playing with it. Joe splits the two remaining glasses between himself and Lauren. They look around at each other.

“To sleeping with strangers!” crows Lauren.

They each take a shot, cough a little from laughing, and then they put on their shoes and jackets and go outside together. It’s chilly, the sounds of the city muffled by the fog moving in off the bay; the last streaks of pink light are leaving the sky, and the streets are buzzing with pleasant energy.

“So pretty!” sighs Lauren suddenly, looking up at the nondescript streetlights. “They’re sparkling!”

Darren follows her gaze and grins immediately. “Oh, you’re right!”

Joe rolls his eyes and slings his arms around both of them. “My tiny, lightweight friends.”

They reach Delta Gamma fifteen minutes later. The door is open, and the music pours out into the street –  _I like the sad eyes, bad guys_  – and a group of students is gathered on the steps. Darren’s eyes brush over their heads, into the house, where bodies are thick and dark, moving around like bees. He glances at a tall boy with a slender waist and bites his lip.

“C’mon, let’s go dance,” murmurs Lauren, pulling Joe and Darren inside.

Joe smiles at one girl at the door, and she waves them through with a giggle. The inside of Delta Gamma is lit with red and purple bulbs that pulse in time with the music; it smells strongly of beer, cigarette smoke and perfume, and the air is dense enough to make everyone dizzy. Several tables buckle under the weight of food and alcohol, surrounded by girls, and Lauren slips her hand into Darren’s and leads him towards one of these. Joe is already distracted by a girl with a big feather dangling from her hair.

“Anything to get that peach vodka flavor out of my mouth,” says Lauren, grabbing some chips and hummus.

Darren laughs and grabs a few slices of apple. “I know.” Then he looks around, scrutinizing the crowd; it’s hard to make out details in the low, pulsating light. “What do you think of him…?”

“Him?” asks Lauren, pointing at the slim boy Darren noticed on the way in. “Well, he is gay, but if you fucked him the entire university would know about it immediately. You’d know this if you ever came to these things.”

“I hate these parties, Laur, you know that.”

“They are kind of…” She trails off, watching a girl in a pink tank top giggle and spill a shot of tequila over her boobs. “Yeah…”

Darren cringes a little, but Lauren hands him a beer and nudges him encouragingly. “How about her?”

“That girl–?”

“No, God, over there.”

Lauren points out a tan girl in a loose blue dress who’s drinking a pumpkin ale and chatting with a guy. Darren squints, and then remembers it’s Chloe, the girl who sells sno-cones.

“Lauren – oh my God, I know her!”

“How do you know her?”

“We –”

“Hooked up?”

“Yeah, well, Chuck walked in on us, but…” Darren’s voice goes breathy. He pats Lauren’s arm and starts away. “…bye bye.”

Lauren rolls her eyes and pops a cracker in her mouth. Darren hangs back in the crowd for a moment, watching Chloe and playing with the neck of his beer; she’s talking to another guy, seemingly interested, and he wants to play this carefully. He feels lucky she’s here – he actually likes her, and he was going to hook up with her before, and she isn’t nearly as intimidating as a stranger. He feels much lighter just looking at her. But she’s not alone, and he has to wait.

He’s just decided to go eat another few slices of apples when she looks inexplicably his way. She squints like he did, and then she grins widely and steps away from the guy she was with.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she laughs, gesturing at him with her beer. Her hair is a little shorter than it was last time, and she’s dyed half of it powder blue. “Hopefully you remember me…?”

“Of course I remember you,” says Darren, smiling. “But hopefully you don’t remember me because–”

“Like I could forget your brother walking in on us,” she says. “Good try.”

Darren ducks his face briefly. “I’m really sorry about that.”

“It makes a good story, don’t worry,” she says, resting her hand lightly on his bicep. “It’s just lucky we didn’t get any further.”

“Mm,” Darren agrees with a nod. Then he says, “We could always, you know, try again…”

Chloe stares, laughing. “Seriously? Thirty seconds into the conversation and you’re trying to get in my pants?”

Darren freezes, beer paused a couple inches from his lips; he looks at her – dancing brown eyes and a jaunty smile, a few goosebumps on her neck and shoulders from the open window a few feet away –  and he relaxes, pulls his beer away from his mouth, and grins. “You know what? Yes. I think you’re really hot, and I’d love to get to know you.”

Chloe’s grin widens. “You are so weird.” Then she leans forward, presses their lips together briefly, and grabs his hand. “Let’s dance, weirdo, and maybe later we can…how did you phrase it? Try again.”

Darren gives Joe and Lauren a thumbs up as they pass them.

“What a jerk,” says Joe, shaking his head in awe.

Thirty minutes later, Darren and Chloe are finding their way upstairs in the Sorority House, holding onto each loosely, both tipsy, laughing and kissing clumsily.

“I didn’t even know you went here,” says Darren.

“Oh, I don’t, I come here for the alcohol and the food.”

They both laugh loudly.

“But – I haven’t seen you at the – um – ice cream – no, not ice cream–”

“Sno-cone!”

“Yeah! Sno-cone stand!”

They pause at the stop of the stairs to kiss.

“Oh, well, I quit. I got tired of it. I work at a juice bar now. I felt bad because I knew I’d never see you again.”

“You wanted to see me again?” asks Darren in surprise, moving his hand up the small of her back.

She smiles, showing a hint of teeth. “Well, yeah, and I won’t even pretend not to be shallow because you’re, like, really hot–”

Darren laughs, and in the blue fuzz from the flickering lights, alcohol and pounding music, she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen; he suddenly understands the need to get closer, as close as possible, to blend together.

“I think this room is open…” she murmurs, moving further down the hall.

Darren’s heartbeat speeds up as he follows her. She opens the door on a small stranger’s bedroom, all dark, and flips on a light. It’s empty except for a fish tank, so she pulls him inside and locks the door. Then she turns the switch off again and looks up at him, the yellow light from the street touching her nose and lips. She smiles lightly, resting her hands on his shoulders. He leans to kiss her softly, her lips parting and her fingertips tightening; he brushes his tongue over the chapped, damp texture of her lips and she breathes out in his mouth; her breath is warm from the cinnamon in the beer she was drinking. Darren runs a hand through her hair and she brings her hips up slightly, and they kiss, needy like this, for a few minutes.

Then he backs her up towards the bed and they both fall onto it and giggle. He’s half-hard and she’s palming him through his jeans; his hand is high on her leg, toying with the lacy hem of her underwear.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah, go on,” she breathes back.

“Just making sure…”

“That’s sweet. Most guys don’t ask that.”

“Most guys are dicks…”

Chloe laughs. “Mmhmm. Speaking of dicks…”

“That was really subtle,” snorts Darren.

“Hey, I’m a girl who knows what she wants–” But she starts laughing, kissing him some more. Then she rocks up on her knees and sinks her hips over his. He groans quietly. “Like that?”

He nods and pulls her down, kissing her under her ear. She smiles. The party continues loudly underneath them, the music shaking the walls, but they don’t pay attention to it. He turns her over and kisses down her neck – she tastes like fruit – and pulls the edge of her dress up.

“Can I take this off?”

She nods, sitting up slightly to help him, and tosses it to the floor. Then she pulls his shirt over his head, tracking her touch down his abdomen. They look at each other, and he brushes his fingers over the edge of her bra, biting his lip.

“It’s okay…” she murmurs, struggling for breath. “You can…kiss me there…if you…want…”

His eyes jump into hers and he grins. Then he kisses the notch in between her breasts and says, “I’m saving that for later…”

She makes a noise that’s not totally intelligible, a noise that zaps every one of his nerves, and he kisses her hungrily before moving his mouth along her ribs, her belly button, her hip bones; he watches her – sees her close her eyes and grin, pull her legs up and rub her knees together – and he hooks a finger under her underwear and tugs it down slightly.

* * *

“Wonder what Darren’s doing,” says Joe.

“Don’t wonder,” sighs Lauren.

“Probably something nasty,” agrees Joe.

They’re sitting outside of the sorority house, passing a juice box back and forth boredly. They got tired of the crowd and the noise.

“Hey, whatever happened when you dated?” asks Joe.

“Off limits, Joe, we’re all friends.”

“Just curious, you know…you seem so good together.”

Lauren sucks noisily on the juice box. “We were too similar, I think. We would burp and fart on each other and play Mario Kart. We acted like friends more than a couple so we just…we were better as friends.”

“Did you know he’s kind of in love with a guy right now?” asks Joe.

“Yeah,” says Lauren, smiling. “I’ve always thought he would end up with a guy for some reason…”

“But the guy’s totally not into him,” Joe goes on.

“Well that guy’s an idiot then,” says Lauren.

“He’s really cute,” Joe says.

“The guy? How do you know?”

“Stalked his Facebook,” explains Joe, pulling out his phone. “He’s like…really pretty in a really manly way.”

Lauren grins, eyeing the phone. Then she says, “Give me that. Chris Colfer is about to get a new friend request…”

* * *

Darren blinks in the darkness, chest rising and falling rapidly; he feels like he’s spinning, sinking, waves pulsing through him intermittently. Chloe’s breathing just as hard, their ankles tangled together.

“Wasn’t…expecting that…” she mumbles. “Most guys here suck.”

Darren glances at her. “…so that was okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, grinning, tucking her hair under her head.

The tingle of alcohol is wearing off, and Darren looks around the unfamiliar room.

“We’re in some poor girl’s bed…”

“Yeah, but this happens constantly in sororities,” laughs Chloe, turning over and nuzzling her nose into Darren’s neck. “I’d go for round two but my boyfriend’s downstairs.”

Darren sits up slightly. “You have a boyfriend?”

“Oh, yeah, but we’re not possessive,” she says.

Darren tries to nod. “Right.”

She kisses him quickly, gets up, and starts to get dressed. Darren stares, a little startled; then he grins widely, hormones overtaking him, and pops up too. They go back downstairs together and she waves goodbye to him, leaving out the back door. Then Joe slaps Darren on the shoulder.

“DUDE! So?”

Something about the sight of his friend brings things to light, and suddenly everything seems extremely bright.

“I DID IT MAN!”

“YES!”

“God, could you guys  _be_  more high school?” says Lauren in a preppy voice, appearing with a round of shots in her hands. Then she laughs loudly and says, “How was it?”

“Oh my God, Lauren –  _Lauren_.”

“Good, I take it,” she says, rolling her eyes and passing him the shot. “Joe says we’re celebrating.”

“Fuck yeah we’re celebrating!” says Joe. “Man just lost his virginity – about time Darren – you’re like forty.”

“Nineteen, jeez, thanks Joe,” says Darren.

“ _Forty_ ,” Joe says with emphasis.

“Only thing is…she said she has a boyfriend…”

“Aww man, you’re a homewrecker! You’re killin’ it man!” Then Joe raises his shot. “Okay, c’mon, I’m way drunker than you two. We are getting blitzed tonight!”

Five rounds and more Ellie Goulding than anyone can stand later, Darren, Joe and Lauren pour out of the sorority house, stumbling and holding tightly to each other, gloriously, mind-blowingly drunk. Lauren is laughing about how strange bugs are, and Darren and Joe are beside themselves about the brightness of the moon. Darren trips a few times, grinning as he recovers his balance, and takes a minute to tap dance next to a mailbox. They’re headed back to Joe’s, but it becomes apparent that they’re too drunk to make it in good time, so they decide to sit on the curb of a suburban street. Darren drags his fingers through the earthy flowerbeds and Joe and Lauren harmonize to the “Doo, doo a dollop of Daisy!” jingle. Darren is too tired (and too drunk) to think much about tonight, but he feels strangely satisfied and optimistic, and though he’s missing his socks, he’s beaming.

Then his smile falters. “Aw, guys, I promised I would work in my aunt’s shop tomorrow.”

“Blow it off,” yawns Lauren.

“No – I – shit. I need to get home.”

Joe tilts his head back and laughs. “Right. That is  _not_  happening. You live in like…another country.”

Darren takes a deep breath. “Okay. Which one of us is the most sober? No, what am I saying, none of us can drive.”

“You can take the bus,” suggests Lauren.

“No, I’ll puke all over the collection box…”

“Hmm…” says Lauren. Then she says, “Call Chuck.”

Darren thinks about this. Then he gasps and pulls out his phone. “Chris! Chris can pick me up!”

“Dude, yeah!” says Joe.

Lauren nods in agreement. “Yes. Yes.”

“Okay, I’m calling him,” Darren says gleefully, pressing send. “It’s not that late.”

It’s three in the morning.

* * *

Chris glowers getting into his car and wipes his eyes free of goo. He looks at the clock – 3:34 a.m. – and grits his teeth. Stupid,  _drunk_  Darren. Stupid, selfish,  _idiot_  Darren. He takes a breath to calm himself and types the address Darren gave him into his GPS. Then he pulls out of the garage, watching for nosy insomniac neighbors, and starts the drive into the city. He broods for a while, calling Darren names in his head; but after five minutes of picturing Darren plastered on an unfamiliar curb, he begins to feel a little amused. Darren’s his friend; he’s never had this; he’s never had someone call him late at night.

After another twenty minutes, he turns down a neighborhood street, and spots three staggering figures near a line of rose bushes. He pulls over, tugs his leather jacket closer around him, and gets out of the car.

“Hey! Chris! Hi! I’m Lauren! You are so  _fucking_  cute, but dude, you didn’t accept my friend request–”

“Chris, hey, thank you so much, I am so drunk, like, if I puke in your car I’m sorry.”

Chris looks around at the three of them – two strangers and Darren – and sighs. Lauren is smiling hugely, dancing without a beat; Joe is smelling his beanie intently; and Darren’s shirt is inside-out.

“Fun night?” asks Chris.

“So fun!” yells Lauren.

“Darren slept with this —ouch!”

“Shut up Joe!” Darren takes a breath. “Man, Chris, I’m sorry. Just…will you drive me home?”

Chris smiles unsurely. “Yeah. I brought you some water and bread.”

“You are the best,” says Darren fervently, smacking a kiss on Lauren’s cheek and side-hugging Joe. “I won’t puke in your car, I promise.

Chris reaches for Darren’s arm to steady him. He helps him into the passenger’s seat and gets in the other side.

“Bye,” he says to Joe and Lauren, who both wave cheerily.

Chris shakes them off and rolls up his window. He turns up the heat, holding one of his hands over the vent to warm it up, and glances sidelong at Darren. Darren’s hair is very messy, slightly damp from dancing, and he’s scruffy, but Chris thinks he’s never looked more attractive. He’s grinning lazily, eyes dilated, taking in the warmly-lit interior of the car.

“You okay?” asks Chris.

“So good…” says Darren, grinning wider. “So…fucking…good.”

“Okay…” Chris passes him the water. “This is probably a good idea…”

Darren nods and takes it. “Definitely, yeah, water…water is delicious.” He takes a few sips. Then he tilts the bottle, drinks the rest greedily, and cradles the plastic against his chest. “Okay. I feel better.”

Chris cracks a smile despite himself. Darren rolls down the window and leans his face into the chilly wind.

“I like…babies,” he says, closing his eyes.

“Mm,” says Chris.

“Aren’t babies…they’re like…they’re like little  _people_ , Chris.”

“They are little people, Darren.”

Darren looks at him, expression flat; then his eyebrows jump. “Yeah! Yeah, you’re right!”

Chris frowns. “Sure you’re okay?”

“I’m great,” says Darren. Then he grins. “Girls think so too.”

“Oh boy,” murmurs Chris, adjusting his brights and merging towards San Francisco.

“You know, most people think one-night stands are, you know, just meaningless…but I don’t think that’s true. They’re like…human experiences…like…I think you can get a lot of meaning from them.”

Chris focuses on the road.

“It’s like…they’re like…they’re such a nice thing to do for another person, you know? It’s like this exchange.”

Chris still doesn’t answer.

“Chris? You still awake?”

“Yes, obviously, I’m driving,” he snaps.

“Oh.” Darren is confused. “Sorry. Are – are you upset with me? I know it’s really late.”

Chris takes a breath and looks at him. Darren’s eyes are deep, dark, scattered with silver from oncoming headlights. Then something in Chris gives way, and he smiles weakly.

“No. I’m not upset with you.”

Darren looks at him earnestly and eventually says, “Okay. Anybody but you. I don’t want you to be upset with me.”

“I’m not,” says Chris. Then, setting his jaw, he goes on, “And since you’re obviously dying to tell me…who was she?”

“Or he,” Darren reminds him. “Or them. Or it.”

“Okay.  _It_  might be taking things a little far.”

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t you have sex with an  _it_? Like…a robot?”

Chris laughs. “No. Tell me you didn’t have sex with a robot.”

“No, I had sex with this girl,” says Darren. “And I really like her.”

It’s an odd moment, like the moon turning over from crescent to black. Chris could be jealous, or he couldn’t. It’s a choice.

He chooses not to be. He’s Darren’s friend, and that’s good enough for him. In fact, he feels relieved that there isn’t the chance of being anything else. A little disappointed maybe, but mostly relieved.

“Well, that’s good,” says Chris.

“I’d never had sex before,” blurts Darren, “so if I’m acting weird it’s because…you know…you know that feeling you get after you finally do the thing you’ve had nerves about for days? It’s this…emptiness. But like…good emptiness? Like…the way you feel after exercising too hard. Just…bone tired.” He pauses and points his finger. “There’s an excellent pun there.”

“Resist the urge,” Chris says wearily.

Darren laughs. Then he looks up at Chris.

“Thanks,” he says.

“For…?”

Darren slips a little in his seat and pushes himself back up. “Picking me up. And listening. And not making fun of me tomorrow.”

“Oh, no promises,” says Chris, smiling.

“You’re a really good person,” says Darren, still looking at him.

Chris bites his bottom lip and his voice shakes a little. “You too.”

* * *

The next day, Chris gets to work early. It’s raining and his hair is speckled with droplets. He rubs his eyes, tired, and takes his place behind the counter. Then he notices a package – a bag of coffee with a pink note taped to it.

_I am the worst person ever for calling you that late at night so I got you coffee! Thanks for listening to me talk about a girl. Of all the shitty and inappropriate things I’ve done in my life, that’s probably the worst one. I shouldn’t have put you through that. If you don’t completely hate me, do you want to play Mario Kart with me and Lauren tomorrow? We’ll provide hot chocolate and stimulating conversation. Also pizza. BACON pizza._

_Sincerely,_

_A total asshat who you hopefully still consider your friend_

Chris smiles and squeezes the coffee. Then he puts it in his bag and texts Darren.

_From: Chris: 11:18 a.m. – You’re not a total asshat. I love Mario Kart. Thanks for the coffee :)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning quote is from Little Women by Louisa May Alcott.

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my beta Randi. I couldn't have done it without you!!
> 
> That’s all for now! ♥
> 
> ~Updated on the last weekend of every month~ 
> 
> Review to tell me what you think!! :)


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